


A Wolf Apart

by Ziggy527



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cersei/Stannis is a goddamned nightmare and I don’t even know where to start with that shitshow, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Jon is an angsty fuck, Not for Robert Baratheon fans, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar gets treated a little better but he’s still kind of a dipshit, Some Rhaegar/Lyanna smut sooner than later though, Targaryen Restoration, wolves and dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-10-09 00:14:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 75,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17396456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ziggy527/pseuds/Ziggy527
Summary: Lyanna Stark has lived when she expected to die. The pain of the birth, however, was nothing compared to the pain of the separation. Now a few years later, Queen Lyanna Baratheon brings her husband and young children home to Winterfell and to the piece of her heart that lives there.





	1. JON I (Part One)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in well over a decade. It’s unbeta’d. I’ve got a decent amount of it written. The primary POVs are Jon/Lyanna/Daenerys. It will be a little while before we get to both Dany and the Jonerys stuff, obviously. Jon’s childhood is pretty different here, as is the political situation in Westeros, which I wanna explore. Dany’s story is largely the same as canon, until it isn’t. 
> 
> So the rough outline is: a few Jon chapters and a few Lyanna chapters and then Dany works her way in. The Jon chapters will be told from a similar timeframe (he’s 7 in his first two, 12 and 17 in his others) but the Lyanna chapters will cover the stuff with Rhaegar and the Rebellion and her life with Robert AND show her interactions with and around Jon from her POV. There might have to be a couple of stray POVs, too for plot reasons. Orys and Sansa are definite possibilities (I think Orys is basically a lock). 
> 
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings. I hope you like.

The castle was buzzing with action. Servants came and went carrying things; tables, chairs, candles, almost anything and everything Jon could imagine. Places in Winterfell where a young boy like Jon could seek some solitude, little used halls and rooms, were now in constant use. It was how the seven year old wound up hiding under a side table in an anteroom off the Great Hall. He just wanted a place to avoid Lady Stark’s gaze and play with his old wooden dragon. It had been a gift from Queen Lyanna, and he loved it fiercely. 

Sometimes, though, it was good to just get away from everyone. He loved his family. All of them. Even Sansa. He knew he was lucky for a bastard. His Lord Father could have left him from wherever he found Jon as a baby. But he didn’t, he took Jon to his castle and raised him next to his true born children. 

However, his family were Starks. Jon was a Snow. He was a bastard who had never known his mother. Lord Eddard had never spoken of her. Jon would ask from time to time when he had Lord Eddard alone, but his father would just smile sadly and tell Jon he’d talk about his mother when Jon was older. Instead, Jon dreamt of her. She was high born and beautiful. With kind eyes. It was nice to dream like that, better than the nightmares, at least. 

There were times he was very jealous of his brothers and sisters. Robb and Sansa and Arya and even baby Bran all had the love of their mother, Lady Stark. When they were scared or sick or hurt she would hug them and kiss them and comfort them. There was no one to do that for Jon. His nights were cold and lonely. 

It was Maester Luwin who found him under the table. The old man held his hand out to help Jon to his feet. 

“There you are, Jon. Your father is looking for you. The King and Queen are close by. Your father wants you on the welcoming line. The maids are in your room ready to dress you. Go on lad.”

The Maester pushed him gently out of the anteroom and down the hall, towards the family rooms. Jon glumly walked out of the Great Hall, into a courtyard, dodging harried servants rushing to finish some last minute detail. He slowly made his way to the Great Keep, where the family’s rooms were. Usually he would swing wide outside the Great Hall, this courtyard was where his Lord Father built his Lady Wife a small Sept where she could honor her gods. The last thing Jon wanted was to run into her. 

Instead he walked under a covered path that separated the first courtyard from the main courtyard. This was where Jon and Robb were learning the sword from Ser Rodrik, where the smithy, stables, library, kitchen and Bell Tower all stood. He was running now, past the Guest House, where the maids had spent weeks preparing the royal household. Finally, Jon made his way to the Great Keep, it’s doors open wide as a pair of guards exited, carrying giant wooden table on their shoulders. 

He took the back stairs, until he got to the floor with the family bedrooms on them. Jon’s room was only a few doors away from the back staircase, the ones the servants used. It was a few more doors before Jon’s siblings rooms came. Theirs were larger and with more trappings, but Jon really didn’t mind. His Lord Father’s suite was at the far end of the hall, his Lady wife’s was right next to it, standing guard. 

When he was a much smaller boy, Jon would often fear going to his Lord Father’s room in the night, as afraid of going past Lady Stark’s room as he would be facing an actual dragon. Most times his feet would take him in sight of her door, only to run back down the long hall to his own room, like a frightened babe. Worse than the nights, though, were the mornings. He’d walk past and hear his siblings laughing in their mother’s or father’s bedroom. Robb had once told him they jumped on their beds and had tickle fights. Jon never got those things. 

His door was open as he approached it. To his surprise, there wasn’t a maid waiting for him. Old Nan’s voice came through loud and clear, despite her age, as he walked into the room, “Jon Snow, would that I were younger I’d belt you for this.” She was sitting in the small chair by his desk, walking stick in hand, a scowl on her face. He ignored her and stripped to his small clothes. “But I am old and my strikes would land as hard as a fly’s.” She offered him a small smile and he sighed in relief, dressing himself in the fancy clothes she had laid out for him. 

“Your Lord Father wants you on the receiving line. He said your Aunt and Uncle are excited to meet you and by the Old Gods and the new, you will meet them looking presentable and not like…”

“Arya?” Jon cut in as he started to button his doublet. Old Nan chuckled and smiled brightly, showing how few teeth she still had in her mouth. “Aye. That girl would only look like a lady if we tied her to this chair. Not unlike the Queen, that one.”

Jon tried to fix his wild hair with his hands. “Queen Lyanna?” Old Nan sighed and waved Jon towards her. “Is there another? Queen Lyanna was wild and willful as a child, same as your sister,” she said, with some sadness. Old Nan gave him a strange look as she licked her palm and ran it through his hair. Jon groaned at her ministrations and leaned away from her touch. She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Well, that will have to do. Out with you before you miss it and the Queen is belting me.”

She rose and followed Jon out the door, giving him a soft whack on his backside with her stick as she passed him in the hall, causing him to chuckle and run off. 

—————

The King and Queen entered Winterfell, their banners flying high under a bright morning sky and a warm sun. Jon stood towards the end of a long receiving line, his true born siblings at the other end next to their parents. Jon was past the household staff, two dozen people between him and his family. It was where he was told to stand. 

Trumpets blared the arrival of the Royal Family. The entire courtyard knelt. The King rode in on a black steed, dressed resplendently in black and gold silk clothes, wearing a gold crown of horns. He was heavier than Jon had imagined and wore a trimmed black beard. This was not the Robert Baratheon of his father’s stories, the demon of the Trident, who slew Rhaegar Targaryen in single combat to avenge his Lady Lyanna. He seemed old and tired as he breathed into his hands for warmth. He pulled Lord Eddard to his feet and hugged him fiercely. 

Behind him came a wheelhouse, also covered in black and gold, the crowned stag banner flapping above the grey direwolf. A Kingsguard in gold plate armor who had the Stark look, his Uncle Benjen presumably, opened the wagon’s door. A woman stepped out first, also carrying the Stark look. She was beautiful to look at as she glanced around the courtyard, smiling deeply. Her grey eyes seemed to rest on Jon for just a second before looking away, quickly. The Queen was wearing a fur lined dress of white and grey, a leaping grey direwolf sewn on her back. 

Unlike the King, she wore no crown. 

She reached into the wagon and pulled out a young girl, no older than three who looked just like the Queen. The Princess Lyarra was also wearing a fur lined dress, but hers was black and gold and she clung to her mother tightly. 

Finally came a small boy, the Crown Prince Orys from the look of it, who bore a resemblance to his father, the King. He stretched his back and legs as he stepped onto the courtyard, casting his wide eyes around the courtyard. A smile formed on his face when he saw Robb. 

“Rise, damn you,” the King yelled to the crowd as they all followed his command. His Lord Father knelt to the Queen as she approached him, Lyarra in one arm, grabbed her free hand and kissed it. The Queen rolled her eyes and snorted loudly. Lord Eddard smiled brightly as he rose and engulfed his sister and the Princess in her arms in a giant hug. He pulled back, kissing them both. Lady Stark curtseyed to the King who greeted her with a “Cat!” before kissing her on the cheek. Robb extended his hand to Prince Orys who took it hesitantly before being pulled into a hug of his own. 

Jon observed it all from the end of the line, past the minor lords that made up the household, but before the servants, waiting patiently. The wool from his doublet was making his neck itchy and he scratched at it, idly. As the courtyard filled with more people it grew hotter and hotter, adding to the uncomfortable feeling growing in Jon. He shifted from foot to foot as Old Nan approached the family to bring a blanket for Lady Stark, who wrapped it around baby Bran. The Queen grew teary eyed and hugged the old lady fiercely, glancing over at Jon as she whispered something in her ear. 

He watched as they all mingled together; hugging, kissing, laughing, smiling. The King patted his father on his back, smiling widely at something Ser Benjen had said. Prince Orys and Robb were chatting excitedly with each other as Arya listened and chirped in occasionally, making the boys chuckle. Lady Stark had bent down to kiss Princess Lyarra and was tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear. The Queen was on her knees fussing over Bran, Sansa flitting between them. They looked like a family. 

Jon thought of his unknown mother as he watched them and a great sadness filled him. He had never felt less a part of the family as he had at this moment, as they carried on happily without him. Shame built inside him at the thought that was working its way to the surface, dark and deep and usually unthinkable; that he really wasn’t a part of this family, no matter how much they claimed he was or made him feel like one. All of them true born, untainted and with a place in the world. Then there was Jon, oft ignored and pushed to the side. The shame of a noble family. The bastard. 

He had never felt more alone in his life. 

The courtyard was beginning to disperse as members of the royal court met the Stark’s court. Vayon Poole was talking with a well dressed man wearing a mockingbird pin who was staring longingly in the direction of the Queen. Two members of the Kingsguard, one with blond hair and the other with grey, their gold armor shining brightly in the sun, were taking with Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel. 

Jon kicked a pebble at his foot, lightly, keeping his head down, trying his best to keep the tears he felt coming at bay. Nan had told him that his Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Benjen wanted to see him? They didn’t seem to care that he was there, waiting for them. He sighed sadly and kicked another pebble. 

He took a step back and then another. No one seemed to be paying him any mind as they moved around him, which wasn’t that unusual. Unnoticed, he turned and walked out of the courtyard, towards the Great Hall and his room. 

Some part of him, a part he felt more childish than the rest, had hoped that as he retreated, one of his family members would catch him and stop him before he was gone. They’d hug him and bring him into their circle, their pack. But no one did. Instead he found his feet taking him into the hall and then up the stairs. 

In an instant he had found himself in his room again. Jon shut the door and plopped on his bed, burying his face in his pillow as the tears came, hard and fast. Sobbing breaths muffled by his down pillow engulfed his body. They slowly stopped and he felt his eyes heavy as he drifted off. 

The sudden knock on his door caused Jon to lift his head up, groggily. It was pounding and his mouth dry as he looked around his room to get his bearings. Before he could even answer, Robb walked into the room and a man in golden armor, who could only be his Uncle Benjen, followed him. 

“There you are, Jon!” Robb said excitedly. “We were looking for you, Uncle Benjen was excited to meet you. Where did you go?” 

Jon stuttered as he searched his brain for a retort to his brother’s question but his sleep addled brain came up with nothing. Just when he was about to admit the truth, that he ran away crying like a baby, his uncle stepped in, looking at Jon with a sad smile. 

“Ah, he was probably dead tired from all the excitement, weren’t you, lad?” Jon couldn’t look his uncle in the eye and just nodded softly, grateful for the lie. He spared a glance at Robb, seeing a frown on his face. Before his brother could speak, Benjen spoke again. “Say, Robb, let me speak to your brother here and then I’ll drag him down for the feast.”

Robb glared at Benjen for a moment before slowly nodding and walking towards the door. “See you at the feast, Jon,” he said as he left. 

Benjen walked into the room and knelt next to his bed. He paused a moment before pulling Jon into a tight hug. They both stayed in the embrace for a few breaths, Jon pressed against his Uncle’s chest. “I’m your Uncle Benjen,” he said finally, releasing Jon. He grasped Jon’s face with both of his hands, looking him over. 

“Jon Snow.” The words came from his mouth as if the very utterance of them disgusted him. Jon’s heart crumbled as he broke his uncle’s gaze and stared down at his hands. He was surprised when the man pulled him into another hug. “No, lad. Don’t pull away. I didn’t mean it like that.” Jon felt his uncle kiss the top of his head. 

He was still pressed against his uncle when the man spoke again, “Did you think we forgot about ya?” Jon pulled back suddenly, his uncle looking at him with the same sad smile. Benjen laughed, picked Jon up off the bed and carried him towards the door, tickling him as they walked. He couldn’t help the laughter that spilled from him as uncle mercilessly used one hand to tickle his belly as he held him solid in his other. 

“Ya did! Silly lad, we could never forget ya! Seven hells the Queen herself sent me to get ya. It’s time for a feast.” The tickling stopped and Jon stopped laughing to catch his breath, but the smile stayed on his face. “You look hungry lad. Well, if you’re good I might give you some of my wine. Of course I also promised your cousin and brother so it ain’t gonna be much. But promise me, boy you won’t tell your...aunt. Your aunt. She’d have me beaten silly if she knew.”

Benjen had a serious look on his face but it was undermined by the twinkle in his eyes. “Promise me,” his uncle said as he started his tickling assault anew. Between his laughs and gasps for air Jon yelled out, “I promise!” 

Jon Snow was carried to the welcoming feast on the arms of a Knight of the Kingsguard, his gold plate armor shining, the pair of them laughing loudly as the entered the hall. 

—————

“Wine!” the King bellowed as he slammed his goblet down on the table he was sitting at. The whole hall, hundreds of people, musicians playing instruments stopped what they were doing while a young squire filled his goblet. The Queen wasn’t looking at the King, instead she was looking down at the table of squires that Jon was sitting at, her gaze stuck on him. His Lord Father leaned over and whispered something in her ear but her stoic mask didn’t flinch. Jon felt mesmerized as he stared back at her. 

The Lady Stark was a very pretty woman. But there was something about the Queen that made Catelyn Stark pale in comparison. Maybe it was the way she had laughed at Princess Lyarra and Arya’s antics next to her, the way the smile covered her whole face and make her eyes sparkle. While Jon had seen her smile a lot since her arrival, he also noticed a sadness about her. It made Jon want to hug her. His father hadn’t spoken about Lady Lyanna’s abduction by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Eddard had stamped out any talk of the matter, but the servants still whispered about it and Jon was grateful to the King for freeing his Aunt from a monster’s grasp. 

“Oi, I’m talking to you, boy,” a voice said, breaking his reverie. Jon turned to see a pug faced squire, whose name he never got, looking at him with agitation. “Where’d you get that tart?” he asked, his eyes filled with envy. He was wearing a threadbare doublet that had two towers connected by a bridge. The barest hint of fuzz graced his ugly face. Jon looked from his beady eyes to the object of their desire. The tart was covered in peaches and syrup and topped with powdered sugar. It looked delicious and Jon had yet to dig into it. 

Robb had come over with the tart and Prince Orys some time before when the table was emptier. The Prince had seemed reluctant, but he shook Jon’s hand nonetheless. Orys took the tart from Robb’s hands and placed it on the table. “This is from my mother. She wanted to make sure you got this. She said she knew you liked peaches.” When he looked towards the dais, the Queen had a smile on her face and waved towards him. He felt a flush rise in his cheeks at it and gave a shy wave back. 

Jon couldn’t quite say why he hadn’t eaten the tart yet, in the minutes since his brother and cousin left to go back to their seats. He had spent a lot of time staring at it, wondering the reason the Queen sent it to him, had sent her son to him. This was all so confusing to Jon, who felt the truth was like puff of smoke he was trying to hug. 

The tart was just a delicious looking piece of pastry, but it felt like more. It felt, to Jon, important. So he wanted to keep it as long as he could. Still, the ugly squire reached for it and grabbed his plate. He was bigger and more powerful than Jon and wrenched the plate away. 

“You haven’t eaten it yet, boy, so fuck off, it’s mine.” A greedy look crossed his pig face as he stuck his fork in the tart and shoved an obscene amount of it in his gaping maw. Anger built in Jon at seeing this greedy boy defile a gift that was his. It was coursing through Jon like a raging river, watching the squire’s face smile at the pleasure the tart was giving him, watching flecks of the pastry fly off his lips to the table below. The tart itself, once so beautiful and pure, was a ruined mess. That set Jon’s blood positively thrumming with anger. Something so pure and sweet and simple defiled by such an ugly thing. 

He was so enraptured by the desert, he almost missed that the squire was now looking at him when he said with his mouth full, “whatcu lookin’ at ya bastard?”

It was the last word that turned Jon’s world red. With a roar, he lunged at the thief, knocking him off the bench onto the stone floor. His head was thrumming as he punched the ugly squire in his ugly face. Spittle and pastry and a chunk of the peach came flying from his pig mouth as Jon’s fist connected with it. All the squire could do was try to cover his head with his arms and hands, but even then it wasn't enough. Jon was on top of him flailing away, mercilessly, and he was helplessly prone on his back. Both boys were screaming and Jon couldn’t make out what either of them were saying through the haze and fog of his anger. 

Jon was on top of him for what seemed like a few seconds, or a few minutes, perhaps. Time faded along with everything else until there was just his anger and his fists and his breathing. A pair of hands grabbed at his shoulders and lifted him up, easily it seemed, and off and away from the bleeding squire. Jon kicked and screamed as he did until he heard a voice in his ear say with authority, “Enough, Jon.”

It was Lord Eddard Stark’s voice that snapped Jon back to reality. He felt the anger and rage leave him as quickly as it came and regret and shame filled the void they left. His father placed him back on the stone ground, up against the wall. He grabbed Jon’s face with both of his big, calloused hands and gave Jon a once over. Then he turned towards the squire, who was being helped to his feet and was bleeding from his nose and mouth. 

Before he could make out what his Lord Father was saying, the Queen stepped into his view, her face a mask as she repeated her brother’s action and took his face in her hands. He felt trapped and flinched as she grabbed him. Her face fell for a flash before snapping back into the mask she’d worn for the night. 

“Did he hurt you, Jon?” He couldn’t meet her steel grey eyes with his, so he looked at his boots. “No, your grace,” he offered lamely.

She crooked a finger and gently lifted Jon’s chin so that her gaze met his again. “Then why did you attack him, sweetling?” There was no anger in her eyes that Jon could detect. Her eyes were wide with worry. He felt a need to tell her the truth, no matter how childish it seemed. “Because he stole the tart you sent to me and called me a...a bastard.”

The Queen’s face hardened at that as she glanced towards the squire, but before she could say anything, the King came stomping over with a goblet in his hands and cheeks aflame. “What in the seven hells is going on, here?” he asked as he looked between the Queen and Lord Eddard. 

The squire pushed his way towards the King, a cloth pressed against his face. “That bastard jumped me and started pummelling me for no reason,” he said, the cloth muffling the volume of his voice. Jon felt the entire room shrinking around him. He noticed a look of panic that crossed his father’s face as he looked towards his sister, who grew very pale and refused to meet her brother’s gaze as her breathing became erratic. 

That made Jon even more nervous. He took a deep breath. If he was going to be punished, so be it. But he wasn’t going to cower like a scared child, even though he was truly frightened. His Lord Father once said the only time a man can be brave was when he was truly scared. He summoned all his courage and looked the King in his eyes. 

“Your grace, he stole and ate a treat that the Queen sent to me. He also called me a bastard.” Jon tried to speak loudly and clearly, but the hitch in his voice was evident to all. The fear was increasing in him with every breath, Robert Baratheon was a fierce King and would be well within his rights to punish a baseborn child like Jon. The King stared back at him with a mask on his face and Jon was certain his punishment would be severe. 

Instead the King laughed, loudly. “There’s some wolf blood in you, boy. Just like your Aunt, you are. Good for you.” He felt the King’s giant hand slapping his back, hard. Jon heard the squire give a yell of disgust. “Don’t like my decision, Frey boy?” King Robert bellowed at the squire, who wilted, instantly at the King’s fury. “I should have you whipped, stealing a child’s desert. Some man you are. Leave my sight.” The Frey boy scurried away into the crowd. “Wine! Music!” King Robert said and the feast picked back up, everyone dispersing. 

Jon was aware of people closing in around him. Robb and Arya and even Prince Orys were all talking at the same time around him. Lady Stark was glaring harshly at him from some distance. The Queen and Lord Eddard shared a look of relief, which made Jon grateful. 

The room felt stuffy and hot, his breathing was becoming short and harsh. He felt a sudden need to escape this hall. With some assurances given to his siblings that he was okay, Jon left through a side door and stepped into the night. 

The cool air enveloped him in its grasp, calming him with each step he took deeper into it. He found himself sitting down on a set of stairs, hands in his face, the emotions of the scene he caused catching up to him. The sound of his deep breaths masked the sound of approaching footsteps and Jon was surprised to see the Queen standing in front of him, a smile on her face and a peach in her hand. 

“How are you?” She asked as she sat next to him and handed him the peach. Shrugging, he took a big bite out of it as the juices ran down his chin. A tender hand reached out and wiped his chin clean. They sat there on the steps for a while and stared at the stars. “Sorry about your tart,” the Queen said, softly. “Me too, your Grace,” he whispered.

“Better eat the whole peach this time,” she said with a slight mirth in her voice. She smiled softly at him, looked to the sky and his eyes followed. The pair of them sat in silence, watching the stars as Jon ate the peach. As much as he tried to relax, though, he couldn’t. He felt ill at ease around the Queen, as if his very existence offended her. 

“I’m going to go to sleep, your Grace,” he said quietly, “thank you for the peach.” As he stood he felt her hand grab his arm, her thumb rubbing his forearm lightly. “Pleasant dreams,” she said softly. Jon walked into the night. 

Just before he left the courtyard, Jon turned and stared at her, bathed in the moonlight, sobbing softly into her hands.

—————————-

The Prince and Robb were talking excitedly, running slightly ahead of him. He picked up some occasional talk of “dreams where I’m a raven and flying” or “pack of wolves in the Wolfswood” and “cousin Joffrey is mean.” Some distance behind him, the Queen and Princess were walking and talking with Lady Stark and Sansa. His Uncle, Ser Benjen was carrying little Bran next to them, in his Kingsguard armor, with little Arya walking besides him, peppering the knight with questions. 

As he ambled down the dirt path, Jon sensed that he was being closely watched, not unusual having lived with Lady Stark and her cold gaze. But this felt different, somehow warmer. 

“Be careful, Prince Orys. You, too, Robb!” Lady Catelyn yelled lightly. Jon wasn’t surprised that she didn’t mention him, she had never even said his name, not once. He was either “You” or “Boy”. She knew everyone’s name in the castle and said them all. From the stable boy to the maids, each got called by their name. But not Jon. It made him sad, sometimes. 

“You as well, Jon!” came the call from the unmistakable voice of the Queen. He froze in fear and shot straight up at hearing his name come from the Queen’s mouth. A panic gripped him as he heard their party come closer to him. Turning towards them, he saw not the mask of anger on her face that was so familiar to him, but a warm and open smile. 

“C’mon, Jon,” Robb said while pulling his arm away from them, “Orys says Ser Barristan taught him a move!” 

Robb pulled him down the path a ways to where the Crown Prince was waiting, stick in hand. He was a small boy of six, a long face, with bright blue eyes and hair as black as the night sky, which fell around his ears. A shy smile crept across his face as Jon approached. Jon felt Robb push him closer to Orys. 

“This is my brother, Jon, but you’ve met him already, Orys. He wants to see the move Ser Barristan taught you, too!” Orys smiled at him before taking a moment to calm himself. 

The boy twirled his stick in a simple counter-riposte. It was a move Jon and Robb learned when they were around the Prince’s age. Jon smiled at Orys, who looked at he and Robb with a hopeful gaze. Robb scoffed, rather rudely, and the Prince’s face fell a bit. 

“Uncle Benjen said it was a simple move, but Ser Barristan himself taught it to me!” he said, looking down at the ground, kicking a rock softly. 

Jon thought that was a very good point. “I think he's right, Robb. We only learn from Ser Rodrik, not Barristan the Bold.” Orys smiled brightly at that and nodded his head in approval. 

“Yeah but he taught us more than that, Jon! I’m gonna go find a stick and teach you a move we learned just a sennight ago.”

With that, Robb was off, running into the godswood looking for a stick. Jon was alone with Orys, the Crown Prince of Westeros. He didn’t know what to say to the boy. 

“He will be back soon, your Grace,” Jon offered. 

“My name’s Orys. Mother says you’re our family, too and that if I don’t treat you as such, she will paint my backside as red as the walls in the Red Keep.”

The Queen had mentioned him? Jon found that idea strange and absurd. Why did the Queen of Westeros care about her brother’s bastard boy? 

“She seems like a good mother, Queen Lyanna,” Jon said, trying to say something to the Prince. 

“She’s the best, I think. She seems sad a lot and fights with father, but I think that’s because they don’t like their crowns. Sometimes she gets cross with me, but that’s okay because I get to have fun, too. One time she started a food fight with me and Uncle Benjen. Lord Arryn was angry at it, but when my father walked in, he just laughed and ate some pie off of mother’s face.”

Jon laughed at that last part. So did Orys. The Prince started skipping down the path, towards where Robb had taken off. “It must be nice to have a brother like Robb to play and fight with, right? I wish I had a brother sometimes. I try with my cousin, Joffrey, but he’s...strange.” With that, Orys got a sad look on his face. 

It was something that Jon hadn’t given much thought. Robb was a part of his life, he always had been. There was never a day in which Jon didn’t see him. “It is. Although it’s not so nice when he eats the last sweet roll at dinner,” Jon said, trying to cheer up Orys. It seemed to have worked because the young boy started giggling. “Besides, you’re our cousin so that’s almost like brothers, right? I’m sure Robb would agree.”

Suddenly, the boy had rushed Jon and hugged him. Patting the Prince on the back awkwardly, Jon watched as he released and looked up and him, shyly. They were interrupted when Robb came back, stick in hand. 

“What were you talking about?” Robb asked, looking at Orys with a skeptical look. Jon spoke for them, “Prince...Orys was saying how he’d like to have a brother like I have you and I said he could be our brother.”

Robb sighed happily, then looked between them like they were fools and said, as if it were obvious, “Of course he can be our brother, he’s a wolf too, like all of us.” At that Orys let out a happy squeal and cheer. He and Robb ran back towards where their mothers were slowly walking up the path, howling like wolves and playfully striking each other’s sticks. 

Jon’s attention, however, was drawn to a tree a few feet ahead. On its branch was a raven, squawking loudly. It was a strange sound, almost like the bird were trying to speak. He took a few steps towards the pine tree, tall and thick, before he could make out what the bird was squawking. “King! King!”

The word was as clear as day to Jon, who was so distracted by the bird that he missed his brother’s yell and was caught off guard when someone hit his back, sending him sprawling towards the godswood floor. There was no time for Jon to put his hands out so his jaw slammed into the hard, dirt packed path, causing the bottom row of his teeth to drive into his top lip. Blood and pain surged in his mouth, his eyes filled with a blinding light and then tears. 

Through the haze he heard Orys’ sobbing and even a couple of sniffles from Robb. Crawling forward a bit, he pushed himself off his stomach and onto his back, sitting up. The Queen and Lady Stark came rushing to the scene, the latter towards Robb, who had fallen at Jon’s feet and the former towards Orys, who was further away. He put his hand towards his mouth and it came away covered in blood. 

A wave of pain and fear and shame shot through him. The true born boys got their noble mothers rushing to them. Unshed tears began building in his eyes as he looked up. He wasn't going to cry because no one was coming to help him. He wouldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to let the tears flow. 

Lady Catelyn was looking at him with absolute scorn as she encircled Robb in her arms. It shook him like it always did. “What have you done, boy!” It wasn’t a question, it was just hissed at him in anger. “Jon!” he heard someone shout and he turned his head. The Queen was moving towards him, practically dragging a still crying Orys, her eyes wide. 

At seeing her face, Jon began sobbing, giving into the fear and pain he had been trying to resist. They were going to blame him, even though it wasn’t his fault. He closed his eyes, hugged himself and wished he were elsewhere. His sobs grew louder as he shut himself away from all that was around him, uncaring as to what happened next. 

“Not my fault,” he said through the blood and tears, to no one in particular. 

“I’ve got you, lad,” Benjen’s voice said in his ear. A strong pair of hands picked him up, bringing him to his chest. His uncle’s armor was cool on his skin as his sobs slowed. Jon felt a cloth on his lips, but still kept his eyes closed. Instead he tried to burrow his head deeper into his uncle’s chest as shame built in him. He wasn’t a baby, he was halfway to his eighth year, yet here he was, crying in the arms of a Kingsguard. 

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asked in his other ear as a hand soothed softly on his back. He opened his eyes and saw the Queen looking at him with concern. It was a look that Lady Stark had never shown him. Jon had expected the Queen to be as angry as the Lady, but she didn’t show it. Instead her hand moved in slow circles along his back. He felt calmer and nodded softly, his Uncle’s cloak moving, still placed between his lips. Orys cried softly for his mother, but she looked only at Jon. 

“I’ll take him to the Maester.” Benjen said to the Queen. She nodded and removed her hand from Jon’s back, moving it to his face as she ran her thumb under his eyes, drying his tears. The fear and pain Jon felt only a moment ago had faded slowly until it was all but gone, like sand through a hand. 

“Is the Prince okay?” Lady Stark’s voice cut through, like a bucket of cold water. Jon heard the young boy sniffle some as the Queen turned from Jon and picked Orys up. “You’re okay, right sweetling?” the Queen asked Orys, looking at him like she did Jon just before. The boy nodded, giving a teary, tremulous smile and Benjen reached over to muss his head. The Queen looked over at her brother seriously. “Ben, the maester.” His uncle nodded and carried Jon away, out of the godswood. 

As they exited, Jon heard the raven squawking. “King!” it said before flying away. Benjen stopped and looked for the bird but it was gone. He looked strangely at Jon before shaking his head and entering the castle. 

Maester Luwin had sat him down on his table, blotting his lip and looking at it through his looking glass. He had declared that Jon wouldn’t need stitches and applied a gross smelling balm to the lips, pressing a clean cloth to them, handing a small tub to his uncle and telling them that Jon needed to apply it a few times a day before ushering them out of the Maester’s Turret. 

He trudged along, his Uncle next to him. Ser Benjen Stark was all but a stranger to him, all he knew of him was from the stories his father had told him and his siblings. Tales told around the tables, benches, chairs and beds of Winterfell. In them Ser Benjen the Brave and Queen Lyanna the Fair had taken on a mythic quality. 

His uncle broke the awkward silence as they walked past the kitchens. “That brought back memories for me, Jon.” He looked at his uncle in confusion, using his fat lip as a weak excuse to avoid speaking. “Kids getting hurt playing in the godswood, crying, running to their mothers, this happened all the time. In fact once I was playing with sticks with Lya, like you and your cousin and young brother and she knocked me into one of the pools.”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh. His uncle led him over to a stone bench in the courtyard, nestled under an old pine tree and sat down next to him. He regarded him with a sly look, “But I know this isn’t the first time you’ve been hurt playing with your siblings.”

That confused Jon. He lowered the cloth Maester Luwin had given him from his lips. “You’ve heard stories of me, Ser Benjen?” The swollen lips caused Jon’s voice to sound strange, but his uncle seemed to understand him well enough. 

“First off, Jon, I’m your Uncle Benjen. None of this ‘Ser’ stuff. But your….father. Lord Eddard. He sends letters to the capitol about you and your siblings all the time. He mentions you in every one, lad.”

“Really?” Jon asked, a sense of excitement spreading through him. 

“Did you not think he’d mention you? You are our family.”

Jon didn’t think that his father would mention him at all. But it felt rude to tell his Uncle Benjen that. So he shrugged instead. At that, the knight put an arm around Jon and hugged him close. 

“Your..cousin, Orys. He holds you and Robb in high esteem. You might even say you’re his heroes.”

The Crown Prince considered him a hero? He was certain his uncle was fooling him. But Jon couldn’t see any lie on his uncle’s face, which was open and warm. He couldn’t, however, dismiss the little voice in the back of his mind, always on guard for being hurt. The voice that suggested Benjen would get Jon’s hopes up, only to rip them away in the end. Jon did his best to dismiss it, Benjen was a Stark. And they were always good to Jon, Snow or not. 

“Me? But I’m just a motherless bastard boy,” he muttered, thoroughly confused. 

Uncle Benjen only chuckled, shaking his head. “That stunt that you and Robb pulled in the crypts last year? When you pretended to be a ghost covered in flour? I’ve never seen Orys laugh so hard. Lyanna had tears in her eyes from laughing. Even the King was roaring with laughter. Orys was searching the Red Keep looking for someone to pull that with.”

The memory of that day brought a smile on Jon’s face. 

“Old Nan was so angry,” he said, the laughter creeping into his voice, “she threatened to pour water over me and bake me as bread in the ovens.”

His uncle was truly laughing now. Jon could see tears blooming in his uncle’s steel grey eyes. “She once threatened to leave me outside for a giant Ice Spider to eat,” his uncle said between gasps, “I ran to my mother scared and instead of yelling at Nan, she yelled at me for angering the old bat!”

Jon smiled brightly. “Old bat? I’m not sure she would like hearing that, Uncle.” Benjen shot him a glare. “You wouldn’t dare!” When Jon held his gaze he muttered, “I’m a bloody member of the Kingsguard, I’m not afraid of an old lady.”

“I’m gonna be sure and tell her that,” Jon said as he jumped up and ran from his uncle, towards the Great Hall, the Kingsguard armor clanking as the Knight gave chase. 

——————


	2. JON I (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of Jon as a seven year old. Enjoy it because when we next see him he will be a pre-teen. That’s not fun for anyone.
> 
> I also want to thank everyone for all the lovely comments. It means more than you know.

That night his father came to him in his room. Jon was already in bed, stuck somewhere between awake and asleep, when he felt his mattress move as Lord Eddard sat by his head. He pushed some hair away from Jon’s eyes, put some of the funny smelling balm on his lips and offered him a smile. 

“Fat lip aside, have you been having fun with Robb and Orys?”

Jon nodded, sleepily and stifled a yawn. Lord Eddard chuckled and lightly mussed Jon’s hair. He then sighed and looked Jon in the eyes. 

“Jon, tomorrow morning the King is going for a hunt in the Wolfswood. He’s heard the rumors of direwolves stalking the wood and he promised the Queen he’d give her the pelts as a gift. I am going with him, along with your Uncle Benjen and most of the court. We will then head to Deepwood Motte and visit Lord Glover.”

His father sighed and looked away. “Prince Orys and Robb will be coming with us as well.”

Unsaid was that Jon would be stuck here at Winterfell. Once again, the Bastard of Winterfell would be hidden away. Worse yet, he would be left alone with Lady Stark. His father glanced back at him, his sad eyes visible in the flickering fire smoldering in the hearth. Jon did his best to hide his disappointment, but Lord Eddard saw through him. 

“I’m sorry, but it’s better this way, son. Safer for you. There’s so much you don’t understand.”

“It’s okay,” Jon heard himself say, the words automatic and without feeling. “I understand why you can’t show your bastard in front of the King.”

His father’s face flashed red for a moment, before settling into his normal frown. He sighed, sad and deep, “I know you fear what the Lady Stark will do in my absence. I know she’s been... difficult since the King’s arrival. But the Queen will be here and she will help you. She’s thrilled to spend this time with you.”

Jon was confused by the idea that Queen Lyanna wanted to spend time with just him, but he was too tired to consider why. A great yawn came from him, earning a sad chuckle from his father. “Go to sleep, son.” His father stoked the fire in the hearth as he left, flames casting dancing shadows across the room as sleep claimed him. 

——————

The next morning, the hunting party left through the gates as dawn was breaking. Robb and Orys rode out of the castle riding on the same saddle as their fathers, each promising Jon a direwolf pelt as a gift. Robb sat in front of their father, while Prince Orys was behind the King, squeezed into the saddle, holding on tight. Lady Stark and the Queen said their goodbyes to their sons and husbands. Lady Stark’s farewell seemed more sincere than the Queen’s who barely looked the King in the eyes, but hugged her son fiercely. Uncle Benjen said farewell to all before riding out behind the King. 

Lord Eddard gave him a sad wave as he left. 

He then broke his fast in the Great Hall. Usually he would have sat next to Robb at the high table. But with both he and Lord Eddard gone from the castle, Jon wouldn’t risk Lady Stark’s ire by sitting there. Instead he sat at one of the lower tables, by himself save for Hodor. A servant brought him a bowl of porridge with honey and dates, his favorite and something that wouldn’t bother his still fat lip. 

As he ate, he watched the high table as Lady Stark and the Queen came in and sat next to each other. Sansa and Arya joined and plopped next to the Queen, who brought Lyarra into her lap and fed her off her plate. Lady Stark held Bran in her arms as he gummed some hard oat cakes. The Queen pointed at Jon as she was talking to Arya and the pair waved happily at him. He felt a flush up his neck and shyly waved back. 

“Hodor,” said the man as he forked the runny eggs on his plate. Jon knew what the simple man had wanted and reached to pass him a chunk of black bread. “Hodor,” he said smiling brightly as he mopped up the yolk with a chunk of the dark bread. “Welcome,” Jon said as he went back to his bowl and shoveled some of the porridge back in his mouth. 

He stared back towards the high table and the two women at it as they fussed over the girls and baby Bran. They were proper mothers, cutting meat and feeding their children. The Queen had Lyarra on her lap, looking down as the little girl ate some fried bread. She ripped the crusts off for her daughter and the princess ate what her mother gave her happily. Baby Bran was in his mother’s arms, the gooey remnants of an oat cake leaking from his mouth and fingers. 

Lady Stark’s eyes fell to him and with it came the usual shiver that took hold of him. Peering out over baby Bran’s head, her blue eyes were cold and unflinching. When she looked at him like that, a familiar sense of shame built in his chest. Being here, in Winterfell, her castle, eating her food, it made him feel guilty for even living. 

Next to her, the Queen was staring at the Lady Stark harshly. When Jon’s eyes stayed on the Queen’s, the Lady Catelyn followed his gaze until the two women were staring at each other, children in their laps. For a moment they held a hard gaze towards the other, neither giving an inch. Finally, Lady Stark blinked and looked down towards the table. The Queen turned to Jon with a tight smile on her face before looking down at Lyarra and fussing over her. What had happened was lost on him, something he didn’t understand. 

Jon’s thoughts fell to his own mother, again. Had she ever held him in her arms? Had she wanted to, or did she just allow his father to take him, wanting nothing to do with him? What was it about the Royal visit that stirred such thoughts in him? Why was he focusing on her so much?

“Did she even want me?” 

The words spilled from him quietly, without thought. A quiet panic filled him as he desperately looked around to see if anyone had heard him. There was no one else but...

“Hodor,” Hodor said softly, placing his fork down on the table. Jon felt a big arm encircle him and he was pulled into Hodor’s body. He smelled like the stables and was squeezing Jon too tight for his comfort, but he didn’t mind and hugged the big man back. “Hodor, Hodor,” he whispered into the top of Jon’s head. “Hodor.”

After a few more seconds, Jon pulled away with a quiet, “Thanks, Hodor.” His porridge was almost all gone and he shoveled the rest into his mouth, quickly. Looking up at the high table he saw it had emptied. The Queen and Lady Stark were gone, his siblings and cousin with them. Hodor had left, too, headed to the stables to start the day. 

Before he could move from the table, however, he heard a high pitched yell from behind him and was hugged again, this time the arms much smaller than Hodor’s. Arya was pressed into his back squeezing tightly. He turned slowly, allowing her to stay attached to him as he brought her to his chest and hugged her with a laugh. 

“I’m glad you stayed,” she said softly, lisping slightly. Behind her the Queen and Princess Lyarra were standing, watching. “Lyarra,” Arya said, her ‘r’s’ sounding like ‘w’s’, “this is Jon.” 

The Princess looked at him shyly, clinging to her mother’s skirts, but the Queen pushed her towards Jon, gently. “Pleasure to meet you, Princess,” he said, bowing slightly while still seated. She smiled at that and took a few tentative steps towards he and Arya. Finally, Arya grabbed the girl and welcomed her into their embrace. Jon held the hug for a moment before glancing at the Queen who looked to be holding tears back at the sight. 

“Let’s allow Jon to breathe, sweetlings,” she said with laughter in her voice. The Princess broke away shyly and moved back to her mother. Queen Lyanna approached him and knelt in front of him, appraisingly. She adjusted the collar on his tunic and tucked a locket of hair behind his ear, smiling the whole time. Next to her Arya seemed almost shy as she smiled at the scene. 

Jon felt a flush creep up his neck, towards his cheeks. The Queen noticed and chuckled lightly. “I’m sure you have more exciting things to do than stay with me. I’m sure I will see you around the castle. Go. Have fun.”

She gave him a kiss and left, Lyarra and Arya at her heels. 

—————————————

After that he wandered through the castle, trusty dragon in hand, doing his best to avoid attention from Lady Stark. There was one place in the castle that she hated to go in alone, without his father or the Queen with her, so Jon made his way there. 

He found himself back in the godswood as morning gave way to afternoon, alone climbing trees and pretending to be Aegon the Conqueror, flying down from the branches on the back of Balerion. The squirrels and birds in his path fled like the armies on the Field of Fire. After some time running around, he climbed the great weirwood tree and reclined on one of its massive branches, quickly falling asleep. 

“Promise me,” a woman whispered, “help me protect him. Please.”

He awoke to the sound of a woman crying, softly. It was the Queen, he realized. Jon could only watch as she knelt before the weirwood and placed a hand on its white trunk. “Help me, please. Give me strength. I can’t do this anymore.”

Her voice was so sad, it broke Jon’s heart. She then leaned her forehead against the tree and started sobbing. Jon felt a pull towards her, one he couldn’t explain, one that overcame his fear of getting caught. He leaned forward on his branch, causing a slight rustling of leaves. The Queen looked up towards him, quickly, and spotted him. Jon felt a small wave of fear crash over him, but not as large as before with Robb and Orys. 

“Jon,” she said as a smile bloomed over he face, “what are you doing up there? Come down here now, you could get hurt.” Her smile never faltered and she held her arms open to him. He jumped down off the branch, landing solidly on both feet, holding his hands out to his side, impressed with himself. 

The Queen clapped happily and pulled him in for a hug. Comfort washed over him; warm and soft and unfamiliar. He leaned into the hug. She kissed him softly on the brow. With both hands on his face, she studied him, for how long, he couldn’t say, her grey eyes raking his face. 

They settled next to each other, leaning against the great weirwood tree. 

“Did you climb the weirwood and fall asleep on a branch?” Jon smiled guiltily and nodded. “I used to do that all the time, you know? That and beat your Uncle Benjen with a wooden sword. Once I knocked him into the pool, right over there.”

They both laughed at the revelation. “I know. He told me” Jon said, smiling brightly. “Once Robb and I hid in the branches for hours after we pushed a giant pile of snow off the portcullis and onto Gage. Nan found us and threatened to hang our entrails from the branches.” 

The Queen was guffawing now, her eyes glowing with happiness. “It seems like your have your fair share of mischief here, too.” He nodded at her, She took her hand and moved a lock of hair away from his eyes. “Are you happy here, Jon? In Winterfell?”

His smile faltered. He could feel his face paling at the question. Was this a trap? Would she tell Lady Stark or his father? Jon didn’t think so, it felt wrong that she would do that to him. So he did what his father always told him to do: tell the truth. 

“I am lucky that my father is honorable and raised me with his true born children, your Grace. It is more than I deserve.” The real truth felt sad to admit though, and Jon looked at his feet. “I don’t think the Lady Stark likes me much at all. She’s never said my name. Not once.”

The Queen sighed sadly at that. “Look at me, Jon.” He lifted his head and met her sad, grey eyes. “Don’t let the Lady Stark’s feelings about you let how you live your life. Don’t let it harm your relationships with your siblings. You may not have the Stark name, but the blood of the First Men flows through you. This is their home. This is your home. Not hers.”

He didn’t think that was true, not really. But she was so insistent that it felt rude to argue with her. 

“You know,” the Queen whispered to him, her eyes suddenly glowing mischievously, “I was told as a child that sometimes the Old Gods will grant wishes to children who are good and listen to their parents. From what my brother tells me, you’re an excellent child, Jon. So if you could wish for anything, what would it be?” 

She leaned over towards him and gave him a little bump with her shoulder on his own. He chuckled at the contact and thought about what she said. It was the opposite of what his father had told him. 

“My Lord Father always told me that the Old Gods don’t give you things they just...guide you.”

The Queen regarded him for a moment before reaching an arm around him and pulling him into her side. It felt good. For the first time in a long time, Jon felt safe. His Lord Father gave him hugs all the time but he always felt like he was stealing them from his brothers and sisters. The Queen placed a kiss on his head. 

“Aye that sounds like Ned. But if the Old Gods could grant you anything, anything at all, what would it be? A Valyrian steel sword? The swiftest steed in the land?”

“My mother,” Jon blurted, the words spilling out of him quickly, thoughtlessly. He felt the Queen tense besides him, heard her give a small gasp. His whole body stilled. A moment passed, long and silent before he heard the Queen give a sob. Jon felt embarrassed and afraid. He didn’t wanna get in trouble for making the Queen cry! 

“I’m sorry!” he moaned. “I shouldn’t bring my peasant mother up to the Queen. Please don’t tell father, your Grace!” Jon moved to leave the godswood before he made an even bigger mess of things. He took a step away and the Queen reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back towards her and onto her lap. 

She hugged him tight to her chest, her quiet sobs shaking her and Jon’s bodies. He had spent a lot of the past few days crying, but no tears came now. Even in the arms of the crying Queen of Westeros, Jon felt a warmth through him he couldn’t explain. It was like bathing in the hot pools a few feet away. 

The Queen broke their hug a short time later, her breathing calm and the tears stopped. She then looked at the sky, at the setting sun and sent Jon to his room to wash up before dinner. They parted with a hug and a kiss from the Queen on his head. 

————————

Jon woke up a few days later feeling very ill. He had the shakes and felt cold, despite the fire that was burning in his hearth, stoked by a maid in the night. But he was also sweating, profusely, and the shirt he slept in was soaked through. His whole body was sore and achy. Breathing was difficult, too. When he tried to lift himself up off his bed, he got very dizzy and collapsed back against the mattress, curling into a ball. 

“Help,” he screamed, but it came out as little more than a raspy whisper. All he could do was moan in pain. It was an agony he couldn’t ever remember feeling before, every part of him hurt and badly. Gathering what strength he could, he screamed loudly. All he could do was lay there and writhe, his eyes closed. 

Time passed, painfully, before Jon heard the door open and a muffled voice that called his name. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. A hand, ice cold, touched his head. The hand forced an eye open and Jon recognized Maester Luwin staring at him with concern, waving a crystal in front of him. 

“The pox,” he heard the maester say to someone else in the room as his eye closed. A woman sobbed. His mouth was forced open and liquid poured down it. Hands wiped his face dry of sweat. Kisses pressed against this brow. “Be brave my love.” Darkness came. 

 

———————-

A thick grey fog was all around him. He couldn’t see past his own arms, the fog moved around them as he waved his hands back and forth. Breathing was difficult, as the very air seemed too thick for his nose, the taste was even worse; stale and sick. All he could hear was a dull thrumming in his ears. Each step was a struggle, the ground beneath him was both soft and solid, able to support him yet unable to keep him steady. 

“Focus,” a voice whispered, the noise echoing through his head. “Focus.”

The fog lifted suddenly, like a thick blanket pulled away quickly. His senses slowly returned, one by one, as he caught his breath, inhaling the crisp, clean air. His sight returned next and he was in the courtyard of a castle he had never seen before. The stone around him was twisted and black, monstrous carved dragons all around the yard. Dawn was breaking around him, the sun just beginning to illuminate the black castle, colors shimmering off the stone. 

A handsome man, with long flowing silver hair and wearing a crown of dark steel and rubies walked arm in arm with a pretty woman with long brown hair and a similar crown. In front of them was a baby boy with brown hair, who walked unsteadily on his stubby legs, much to the man and woman’s amusement. 

Jon took a few unsteady steps himself, before finding his stride. He walked up to the couple. They took no notice, focused solely on the babe in front of them. “Excuse me,” he said to them, voice cracking. They didn’t react to him, even as he walked in front of them. In fact, Jon could do nothing to draw their attention, as he waved and screamed and jumped around right in front of the pair. 

He heard a roar in the distance. A frightening roar, that shook the earth beneath his feet and caused Jon to cower. Flames burst from the parapets as a dragon flew into the courtyard, landing with a violent thud. Green and bronze scales covered the beast, shimmering in the morning light like jewels. The beast’s eyes glowed, orbs of amber, dark and deep. Jon tried not to stare, but fear drew his gaze back to those eyes. 

“Aegon,” a voice said behind him. He turned and saw the silver man staring at him. The man reached out with both hands and grabbed Jon by the head. “The dragon must have three heads,” he said without emotion. “Are you one of them?” Unblinking indigo eyes stared deep into him. 

Suddenly, the fog returned. In the blink of an eye, they were all gone, like his senses. The pain returned, breathing became harder with each breath. “No,” a voice said in his head. “Not this.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, falling to his knees. Before the blackness could claim him again, the fog lifted. His senses returned. 

He was in the same courtyard as before. This time, it was dark, with a moon in the sky, full and shining. Torches also lit the yard in a pale glow, shadows dancing beneath the fluttering flames. In the middle of the yard was a bed. The same woman as before, a woman of surpassing loveliness who Jon thought he knew, was lying abed, pale and covered in sweat. As he drew closer, Jon saw her body was bleeding profusely below the waist, through the thin blanket that covered her. “Promise me,” she muttered in pain, clutching dead flowers in her hand. 

“Promise me,” she said louder as she writhed in pain, her face flushed and covered in sweat. In her hands were flower petals, black and dead. She clutched at them desperately, but they fell, one by one out of her grip. Jon went to move closer to her but the roar returned. This time, he didn’t cower. Flames heralded the arrival of the same dragon, who dropped into the courtyard again. The green scales that covered the dragon were deeper in the moonlight, like pine trees in the dark, as it moved towards the woman lying in her bed, still muttering. 

The great beast opened its maw and in one motion swallowed the woman and the bed whole. Jon screamed in horror and fell to his knees. He found a sword at his feet and picked it up. Running towards the dragon, he closed his eyes and swung with all his might, screaming to all the bloody gods in anger. 

As he swung, he opened his weary eyes. The dragon was gone and his sword met another sword, a dull ping echoing through the air. In the beast’s place was a man, tall and with a brooding look. His dark brown hair was tied behind him, his eyes grey as steel. Scars marked his impassive face as he held his sword aloft with one hand. It looked to be made of Valyrian steel, smokey and dark and impossibly sharp. Its pommel was a white wolf’s head with red jeweled eyes. With the flick of his wrist, he knocked Jon’s sword aside, sending him backwards, into the returning fog. 

“Not this, either. Focus, boy.”

He took a deep and shuddering breath with his eyes closed. The voice had told him to focus. Jon wasn’t sure what it meant, wasn’t sure how to escape this nightmare. Another deep breath, this one shorter than the one before. The fog was choking him. 

Anger and frustration roiled inside him and he screamed, loud and long. As he opened his eyes, the fog was gone and he was suddenly flying through the clouds on the back of a green dragon, who was spewing fire out of his giant mouth, in time with Jon’s scream. The beast lurched and Jon stopped yelling to grab a hold of one of the horns that grew from the dragon’s deep green scales. 

He was flying, flying through the air on the back of a dragon. A different scream emerged from him again, this one a whoop of joy and glee. The beast echoed his call. The dragon descended, breaking through the clouds and flying over the ocean, which was blue and shimmering as the reflection of the sun and the dragon shined off it. Ahead was an island, the high brown cliffs topped with green grass swaying in the breeze. 

Jon felt free, free in a way he had never thought possible. All that mattered was him, the dragon, his hands wrapped around one of the dragon’s horns, his hair flapping in the breeze and the slight sting of tears in his eyes. Up here there was no Lady Stark, no Snow surname, no sneering squires.

His mind was blissfully empty. He stretched it, like one would stretch after a long ride, to the horizon. Something filled the void, though, something primal and powerful and familiar. It wanted to hunt and kill and burn, the emotions filling Jon, too. Part empowering and part fearful, but all together tempting; he felt the pull towards the beast. 

The dragon circled the island a few times, allowing Jon to get a lay of the land. A giant castle stood on one end of the island, dark and foreboding, the stone twisted and warped. Jon was forced to grasp the horns he was holding tighter as the dragon fell towards the castle. Quickly their destination came into view, the same courtyard as before. This time there was another dragon, black as night with red veins rippling through it. Jon’s dragon landed with a loud thud and chirped a greeting towards the black one. 

Jon got off the dragon slowly, touching the ground with wobbly legs. He pressed a steadying hand against the dragon’s hide, shocked at how warm the beast was. As he looked down to take a few steadying breaths, he heard a voice, soft and ethereal from behind him. 

“My love, you’re back.” Jon turned and saw the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen standing in front of him. She had long silver-blond hair and purple eyes which were staring at him with such love in them that Jon felt rooted to the spot. A white fur jacket, with dark red lines running down it, wrapped around her. She reached out a hand, covered in gloves of burgundy leather, towards him. He lifted his own hand towards her and just as they were about to touch, the fog returned. 

When it lifted again, he found himself in a vast desert, the sun blazing like a furnace above his head. None of this was real, he knew, it was all a dream of some kind. Not a dream, a nightmare. 

“Nightmare?” the voice in his head taunted. “This is the future. Your future. And past. Lives never to be lived. This is you, boy. This desert. You will find it there. Your destiny. Should you survive.”

The heat was overwhelming. He fell to his knees, trying to push the voice from his mind. The more he pushed, the hotter it got. A flashing light appeared before him, violet and haunting. He heard a high screech, like a hawk or eagle but deeper and louder and scarier. Then he was gone. 

Images came flashing in his head and all around him. A lion with a fish in its mouth; a headless wolf walking in a red, dead city; a pack of wolves, some with red fur, some with brown fur and some with black fur in the swamp eating a kraken as a giant she wolf with brown fur and grey eyes watched; peaches floating above an empty, white city in the desert; a man with a white wolf’s head and a woman with a black dragon’s head, both beasts with bright red eyes, breaking chains with a hammer; a yellow lion with green eyes sitting on a throne of swords and roaring like a common house cat; a horned stag running through the woods, its heart on fire running as the flames consumed it; a monster with bright blue eyes and skin as white as snow reached out to him but man with a horned wolf’s head grabbed the arm before it could reach him. 

Faster and faster these images came and came until it was all a bright light. 

“Yes. Good. You see, boy. And now you must wake.”

Suddenly he was falling and falling, screaming and screaming. 

 

————————

He awoke with a slight gasp. Pain was the first thing he was aware of. It was a duller pain than before. His throat was on fire and his head was ringing. Weakness gripped his whole body as he slowly moved his limbs. Blinking, he opened his eyes. 

Darkness was around him, broken by a burning fire in a massive hearth. As he looked around he realized that this wasn’t his room, the bed he was lying in wasn’t his bed. They were both massive, the bed and room, and richly decorated. Jon heard a person breathing next to him and turned his head to see the Queen asleep next to him on the bed. Was this her room? 

“Ray. Promise me,” she muttered, seemingly stuck in a dream. 

She was sleeping on her side, above the linens and furs, her hands tucked under her head. Her hair was a mess, the ponytail she had pulled it into had become frayed and frazzled, hairs sticking out everywhere. Jon could make out dark rings under her eyes, the rest of her face looked pale and gaunt. Was she sick, too? 

He tried to think about the Queen, but his head still hurt and he moaned, slightly and reached for it. The mattress creaked at his movement and his stirrings woke the Queen. “Egg…..Jon?” she said, softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes stared back at his, groggily, before they lit up. She pulled him to her as she sat up and peppered his face with kisses. Before he could even react she had hugged him to her chest and held him there, in a tight embrace. A sobbing moan escaped her, something primal and powerful. 

“You’re alive!” she rasped. Tears were dripping onto the top of his head. A surge of happiness coursed through his body, leaving his previous aches and pain a pale memory. “He’s alive,” she said, and Jon was certain she wasn’t talking to him. “You told me he’d live, my love and he did.”

Jon felt a comfort that he had never known before. Was this what it was like sleeping in a mother’s bed? Is this the feeling his siblings felt when they were sick or tired or scared and they climbed into Lady Catelyn’s bed? Is this what it was like to have a mother? To feel comforted? 

It felt sublime. 

The Queen was muttering something to him, holding him tight and rocking him. There was a truth here, Jon knew, but he was tired and weak and it was beyond his comprehension. So instead, he allowed himself to melt into the embrace. To pretend that this was normal, that he wasn’t going to have to remember this hug, this feeling of warmth when the Queen left and he was cold again, and alone. That he could rely on it. 

He was still weak and groggy. The Queen released him from her embrace and got off the bed, running from her chambers, skirt in hands. A moment later, she was back with Maester Luwin in tow, a small bottle in his hand. The pair worked him over in ministrations, the Maester’s clinical and detached, the Queen’s warm and tender. Jon’s mouth was opened gently by the old man and a bitter tonic poured down his throat. He choked it down, the Queen patting his back gently. 

“He will be fine,” the maester said to the Queen who had settled by his side. Jon felt overwhelmed and only leaned into the beaming Queen’s side. “He’s strong,” she said as her arms enclosed him. “Like his father.” 

————————-

The Bastard of Winterfell stayed in the Queen’s bed for another week. He had been there for almost a fortnight. She had helped him to the privy, fed him and helped him drink his tonic. A few days after he woke, his fever returned and she held him the whole night as he shivered and moaned and cried. When it broke, she was there again, to help him into a tub with warm water. She poured soothing oils into the bath and lovingly washed his hair as Jon played with the bubbles. 

He told her stories, stories that he thought were boring or silly or stupid and she laughed at all of them, her eyes shining with love. Princess Lyarra came and went, wary of his presence at first, but then more comfortable with it. When he was free of his fever, she slept in the bed, too and the Queen read stories to the pair of them. The little girl sucked her thumb and slept with a little blanket tucked against her. Jon would wake with the Queen hugging him, warm and calm and cared for. 

The dream that had been the week with the Queen, of pretending that Jon had a mother, that he was as loved as his true born siblings or cousins, was ending. The King, his Lord Father and their true born sons were finally returning, gone almost an entire moon. Queen Lyanna told him he was healthy now and with his father coming back, he was going to go back to his room. He nodded absent mindedly and she held as he cried. 

That night, back in his bed for the first time in weeks, Jon felt alone and cold. Why had the gods cursed him with being a damned bastard? Why did his siblings and cousins get their mothers in their lives and he had to rely on the Queen or Old Nan to suffice? 

_Because you’re not as good as them._

It was true, he knew it deep down to his bones. He would never be as good as the rest of his family, no matter how honorable, how noble or heroic he was. Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran could feast on the parent’s affections, their mother’s. Given freely and openly and constantly. 

Jon, however, would have to live with stolen moments of care. Not from his mother but from others, whose sense of guilt or obligation pushed them to comfort the Bastard of Winterfell. 

Sleep eluded him most of that night. 

—————————-

The return of Robb and Orys meant less time alone for Jon and more time in their company, for which he was grateful. Arya and Lyarra would play with them, too. It was a week before the royal party was to head back south and the family was going to make the most of it. 

One day they all played in the pool in the godswood, even Sansa had joined them. Uncle Benjen had Arya on his shoulders while the Queen had Lyarra on hers. They would run at each other in a mock joust, until one pair was defeated and knocked off their ‘noble steed’.

Arya had made their uncle swim around chasing after Robb, Orys and he, while she whacked them with a stick. When their uncle got tired, Arya would smack him, too, calling him “horsey” and yelling at him to move. She seemed unstoppable until Jon and the other two boys started hurling mud pies at her and Benjen. Jon managed to hit their uncle square in the face, which caused him to slip on the bottom and fall under the water, taking Arya with him. 

Robb and Orys picked her up from under the water and brought her to the edge of the pool. She looked grateful for a moment before they then pinned her down and hog tied her with some of the belts left in a pile of clothes on the grass. Arya fought and screamed the whole time but they managed to succeed and she was stuck on land.

“Looks like your reign of terror is over,” Sansa said to Arya, imperiously. Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Benjen laughed at it along with Sansa. But then Robb hit their eldest sister in the face with a mud pie and she screamed in horror. 

“Robb,” their Lord Father admonished, appearing in the godswood after a morning with the King and Lady Catelyn, “don’t throw mud at your sister.”

His brother looked contrite for a moment. Then the Queen spoke. “That’s right, Robb,” she said crouching in the shallow end, “let your sisters throw mud at you.” She then rose, a handful of mud in her fist, which she hurled at Lord Eddard. Her aim was true and the mud splattered across his face. 

“That is how it is, sister?” 

Lord Eddard nodded gravely and started taking off his clothes. Before long, he was in his smallclothes, like the rest of them. He then ran along the edge of the pool, towards where the Queen was, jumping out towards her. A giant splash rocked the pool and soaked all those around, the Queen included. 

When Lord Eddard emerged from the depths, he had mud in both hands, each sent speeding towards his siblings. After that, chaos erupted. Mud was flying furiously. Jon hit Orys in the face before getting hit in his mouth by Robb. Sansa’s outrage had vanished quickly and even she was slinging mud, striking Orys on the side of the head while giggling and blushing. Arya, broken free of her bonds, was walking the shallow end with a stick in her hands, looking for vengeance on Robb and Orys. 

At one point his Lord Father had Jon in his arms, hugging his chest and swinging his legs around like a stick. The Queen had caught his legs and a brief tugging battle was waged over Jon before Lord Eddard lost grip of him and he flew into the Queen’s arms. She tittered mightily as she held him in her embrace. Jon’s father smiled sadly at the sight. 

By the time midday came, they were all exhausted and covered in mud. Even the Queen was wet and filthy, but her smile was as bright as Jon had ever seen it. All of them walked into the castle together, the servants and guests looking at them askance. 

The Lady Stark came out of the family quarters, Bran in her arms, took one look at them and muttered “Starks,” while walking away, shaking her head. Jon was certain she had a smile on her face.  
———————————

The sound of his door opening roused Jon from a deep sleep. The sky outside his window was pitch black. Lifting his head towards his door, Jon saw his Uncle Benjen stepping into his room. The Kingsguard walked towards his bed and knelt besides Jon, moving some stray locks of hit from his face. 

“I know it’s early, lad, but I wanted to say goodbye to you myself.” He rose and pressed a kiss to Jon’s brow. “You really are a good boy. I’m so happy to meet ya. But now I need you to get dressed. The Queen is waiting for you in the crypts. I’m to escort ya.”

He rose and dressed quickly. Uncle Benjen picked him up and carried him out of his room, quietly. Jon felt comfortable in his uncle’s arms and laid his head on the man’s shoulders. 

It wasn’t long before they were outside the door to the crypts, the Queen waiting there with a torch. She thanked Benjen as he placed Jon on the ground next to her. The Queen kissed his head and grabbed his hand, leading him down the stairs into the crypts. 

She was quiet until they were moving amongst the plinths. “I took Orys and Lyarra down here when we arrived, but I wanted to take you, too.” Jon didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept quiet. 

After a few more moments of walking, past the old Kings of Winter and their wolves, then the Lords of Winterfell and their wolves until they stood before two recognizable statues. His Lord Grandfather and Uncle Brandon. 

The Queen lit a brazier next to the statue of his grandfather. She then knelt in between them, placing a hand on each of their feet, rubbing them softly in prayer. Waiting quietly, Jon watched the prayer in silence, before the Queen dropped her arms and turned to him, beckoning him to her. When he got close, she hugged him close, still on her knees. 

“This is the final resting place of your grandmother, grandfather and uncle, as I’m sure you know.” He nodded at that. It was something he knew. “I just...wanted to bring you here. Show you to them, myself.” The flames flickered across her face, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She turned to the statues. 

“Mama, Papa,” she choked on a sob, “you know who this is. So do you, Bran. I’m sorry you couldn’t meet him. I know it’s my fault. But you’d be so proud of him.” 

Jon was as confused as he’d ever been in his life. Why was the Queen showing him to her family? But he also felt happy that she wanted to bring him down here and not his true born siblings. Silence stretched in front of them, but Jon wasn’t uncomfortable with it or being around the Queen. Eventually, though, he decided to speak.

“Robb said the Targaryens killed grandpa and Uncle Brandon. I’m sorry, your grace.”

The Queen turned to him, quickly, her eyes briefly locked on him. “Yes. One of them did.” She sounded sad as her head dropped. 

“I’m glad they’re all gone, then.” 

“Not all of them are.” Her voice was a whisper, she wouldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze at his feet. “And he was just one. Some of them were good. I’m sure some of them still are.” 

She pulled him into her lap, his head resting on her chest and they sat there watching the statues of the Starks as the light and shadows danced across them. Starks were buried down here. Where would they bury him? Would the Queen want to be buried here? Or in Kings Landing with her husband? 

Glancing up at her face, Jon saw that her grey eyes were red and full of tears. He felt sad at seeing that and a little guilty that she was crying in front of him, again. 

A single tear fell down her cheek and Jon reached up and brushed it aside with his finger. “Don’t cry, my Queen,” he said softly. 

The Queen chuckled at him and brought him in for a deep hug. “You remind me of your father,” she murmured against his head, “so much.”

A small sense of pride bloomed deep in his chest. His father was the best man Jon knew. 

“I know that not having a mother with you can be tough sometimes. I’m a woman grown and I still miss mine own. But I want you to know that she’s out there, that...I’m out there, my love.” She choked back a quiet sob. “The King has promised me that your...cousin Orys will be fostered here at Winterfell. He’s a wolf like you and your siblings. He needs to learn the old ways.”

She was looking at him with such love that Jon couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Her hands were gently caressing his face and head, working through his wild hair. 

“That will only be a few years from now. And I promise you that I will come back here to drop him off. This isn’t a goodbye between us. Merely a short farewell.”

She pulled him into her arms again. “I’m glad you’re feeling much better. You gave me quite a fright,” the Queen said as she peppered his head and face with kisses. Jon involuntarily grimaced under her assault. The Queen smiled at it. “Don’t worry. When I leave you can wipe my kisses off your face.”

That thought felt wrong to Jon. He didn’t want to wipe her kisses off, “I won’t your...Aunt Lyanna. I like your kisses.” 

She laughed at that, smiling widely. Jon smiled with her. “I love you, Jon. More than you could ever know.” One more kiss and one more hug and she stood, grabbing his hand. 

The Queen of Westeros and the Bastard of Winterfell walked out of the crypts together, dawn breaking, a red sun across a black sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next is Lyanna I in which Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it.


	3. LYANNA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was an absolute bear to write. In the end I wrote well over 20k words for this. Which is functionally insane (and the main reason for the delay in posting). I removed over 10k words for this chapter and over 12k remain. That’s basically as many as Jon I/II combined. But I didn’t want to split this up. So I removed two big things: They were two set pieces: Harrenhal and the Tower of Joy. It was too much. Don’t sweat, though, as I’m going to get them in this story somehow. 
> 
> Personally, this was harder than the Jon stuff to write for me and I’m still not thrilled with it. The smut is something I was never good at and time hasn’t improved my skills in it. 
> 
> This isn’t the last we will see of Rhaegar. He’s dead as fuck, don’t worry about that, but Lyanna remembers. Their relationship will be explored more. Certainly more than, say, Lyanna/Robert. 
> 
> So here it is, hope you enjoy.

She was two days past the Twins when the outriders found her. Ragged and filthy, they outnumbered the two men in her guard, Harwold and Wyllis, by a number of four. Seven against three. Lyanna Stark cursed that her father had not allowed her a sword, but cursed even more that she didn’t take one for herself. 

“You the Stark bitch?” the leader asked, his face pinched and dirty. 

Instinctively she straightened on her horse, a grey mare she called Winter Rose. “Aye,” she said as imperiously as she could. “Who are you to ride upon a noblewoman on the road to her brother’s wedding?”

“We’re here on King’s business. Said to take you unharmed if I could. Also said you could be dangerous if armed. What with you bein’ the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

A twisted smile crossed his face as he uttered the last words. Lyanna shivered at them, however. _The Mad King knows._ Did Prince Rhaegar betray her confidence? She felt herself sag slightly in the saddle. If the Mad King knew, she was truly fucked. 

Next to her, Harwold drew his sword and brought his horse next to her. “You’re not to lay a hand on Lady Lyanna. Not while I draw breath.”

Three of the ugly man’s friends pulled up next to him, their horses snickering. Lyanna felt her pulse quicken. All four sellswords in front of her drew their swords. “We was hoping you’d say that,” one of the others said as he charged forward towards Harwold. Behind her, Wyllis surged forward, sword in hand to meet the four coming at her. 

“Wyllis, a dirk, give me a blade!” Lyanna yelled. 

Her call went unheeded. Both Stark men met the sellswords with a clash of steel. 

“Run, m’lady,” Harwold screamed. “Run to…” 

He was cut off as a sword pierced his throat. Blood spurted out of his mouth, and the hole in his neck. His eyes went wide and then slack as he slid off his saddle, landing on the ground with a thud. Harwold had taught her to ride. Now he was dead. 

Next to him Wyllis roared as he cut the arm off the man who killed Harwold. Lyanna screamed as another blade came from behind him. Wyllis spun his horse to meet it. For half a moment it seemed like Wyllis would turn in time to block the blade. But he didn’t. It met his skull with a crunch as brains and blood went splattering over her. 

The armless sellsword was moaning on the ground in pain. One of his brethren slid off his horse and ended his misery, stabbing him in the heart. They all then turned towards her. 

Lyanna sat on Winter Rose, frozen. Two men had died because of her foolishness. And now she would, too. It seemed a fitting ending. But she wouldn’t make it easy on these bastards. They would have to catch her. 

As they advanced, Lyanna jerked the reins and Winter Rose turned swiftly. In a heartbeat, she was past the two men who had reached for her. A third was sent flying from his saddle with a kick of her boot to his face. With her horse between her legs, she felt a spark of hope, that she could ride from here and to freedom. 

Winter Rose, however, reared suddenly, screaming in pain as she threw Lyanna off her saddle and onto the ground. She landed hard on her back, knocking the wind from her. 

Great gasping breaths shook her body. The events in front of her were a haze. Winter Rose had collapsed on her side, blood pouring from a wound in her neck. Lyanna could hear her dying moans through the fog of her pain, through the muffling of her hearing. 

Laid out on her back, time slowed. She lifted her head, slowly, looking around. The sellswords were approaching her, their bloody swords drawn. Lyanna knew she was going to die, there was no safety for her now. Better to die here and now, to fight and fight against the sellswords before they could defile her and take her to the King. 

Before she could form a plan however, two riders came galloping past her, swords in hand and mowed through the sellswords before they could react. 

As the chaos erupted around her, Lyanna turned over onto her belly and started crawling towards where Wyllis and Harwold lie dead on the ground. When she reached Harwold, his eyes were stuck wide in pain and panic. She laid her hands on his bloody chest, in a benediction. His death had been gruesome and the old man felt all of it. Bile built in her as she gently closed his eyes with her hand. 

She pried open his fingers and took the blade he had gone to death with from his hands. Her breathing had slowed and her senses had sharpened in the moments since she fell from the horse. Stabbing the sword in the ground, she used it as leverage to help her to her knees. 

_”What do you do when you fall, Lya?” Her papa’s voice echoed in her head, “You get back on your feet.”_

Lyanna Stark stood, on wobbly legs, but tall nonetheless. As she looked around, she saw the two hooded riders had jumped off their steeds and were fighting against the six remaining sellswords. Whoever they were, and from this distance Lyanna couldn’t tell, they were expert swordsmen. They weren’t fighting the other six, they were dancing. 

Fluid and quick, they carved through two before Lyanna could even blink. Then they switched sides, silently, one going high and the other, low. For a moment, she thought she saw a familiar shape on the pommel of one of the men’s swords, but it passed. Instead, her concentration was drawn to one of the sellswords, who had broken free from the others and ran towards her, in a desperate need to escape. An escape Lyanna would make sure he’d never find. 

She spun Harwold’s blade in her hand once, then twice, testing the weight. It was heavier than she was used to, but it would do. A few strides towards him and their blades clashed. “Move, bitch,” he muttered his eyes wide with fear. 

“Fuck you,” she spat back, meeting his parry with a slash. He was competent with a blade, she could see in their few strikes. However, Lyanna was better. She used her speed and leveraged his sword up quickly, spun wide and smacked it down, hard towards the ground. Before he could react, she slashed up, cutting him from navel to neck, soaking her blade and hands with even more blood. One last desperate gasp of air and the sellsword leaned against her. 

She stepped back and his body fell to the earth, face first. Following it to the ground, Lyanna noticed a dirk sticking out of his back, between his shoulder blades. Looking up, she saw one of the hooded men approaching her. 

“He was mine!” she bellowed, angry at the thought that they thought her some simpering maiden locked in a tower in need of saving. 

With a flourish, the man pushed back his hood, revealing a familiar face with purple eyes and flowing silver hair. His face was ablaze with concern, indigo eyes scanned all around her, barely taking notice of her. 

“Rhaegar?” she asked, dumbly, to the man she knew was Rhaegar Targaryen. “What are you doing here, why are you—“

Her inquiries were cut off as the Crown Prince of Westeros stepped into her and silenced her with a hand to her mouth. She gave a lame attempt at defiance but they were muffled by his warm palm against her lips. On his hand was a gold signet ring of a red dragon against a black field, quartered. 

“Shh. There may be others,” he whispered, removing his hand from her mouth. He stayed close to her, however, their bodies pressed together. As he scanned the area around her, Lyanna was distracted momentarily by the beauty of his eyes and the way they shined with the sun reflecting off of them. 

She had stared too long, though, and he eventually noticed her gaze on him and slowly separated himself from her. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about this, my lady. But the King, he knows about you. These won’t be the last men he sends after you.”

Instinctively, she tensed, his words angering her. “The King? Your father, you mean,” she spat. 

His eyes darkened, yet behind it all Lyanna saw was sadness. “Yes. My father, unfortunately.”

The wolfsblood in her was pumping now, her anger was rising, “Did you tell him? About me being the Knight of the Laughing Tree?” 

He met her eyes with a cold look. “Do you think so little of me, my lady?” 

She wilted, slightly under the harshness of his gaze. He had not spoken kindly of his father when he found her in Harrenhal, Lyanna remembered the disgust that formed on his face when the King was mentioned. It was similar to the look on his face now. 

The Prince of Dragonstone was telling the truth, she could glean that from his reaction to her accusation. 

Ser Arthur came back, after finishing off the last sellsword and dragging all the bodies off the road. Rhaegar and he moved away from her and were whispering to each other. It made Lyanna’s blood boil, the causal disregard for her feelings. 

“What’s that you’re whispering?” she bellowed at the pair, causing them to snap their heads towards her. A glance between them and Rhaegar was back at her side, which caused her to soften, slightly. That the Prince had that effect on her in turn made her even angrier, but then he’d step closer to her and the anger would dissipate. 

Lyanna, in short, was terribly confused. 

“We leave now, my lady,” Rhaegar said, “pick a horse. Quickly, if you please.”

It didn’t please her. But she was alone and wanted by the King. She had no choice but to follow Prince Rhaegar’s instructions, however she would do it at her pace. 

So Lyanna glared and stepped towards Rhaegar. She lifted her sword in his directions and thrust, just next to him, causing the Sword of the Morning to give a slight yell. Rhaegar had no reaction, though. Nor did he have one when she wiped the blood off her blade, using his clothes as a cloth. 

Then she turned without a word and moved towards the sell swords. She took a pair of greaves from Harwold and a gorget from one of the smaller sellswords that fit her relatively well. If her life was in danger, she would go down fighting. A dirk and shield were also taken, while the Prince and his guard waited impatiently for her to finish. 

Spitefully, she would make them wait a little longer, still. Once adorned in her ill fitting armor, she went to Wylis and grabbed the skin of wine tied to his hip. Harwold’s had exploded when he fell, the wine spilling on the dirt, mixing with his blood. But Harwold’s was intact and filled. She spiked the cork out with her teeth, spit it out and drank deeply. 

“My Lady, please!” Rhaegar pleaded. Lyanna swallowed and nodded to him. 

The horses were oblivious to the death around them. There were a few to pick, brown and red, mainly. One mare had a grey coat, speckled with white. Instead she picked a black colt, the sellsword who rode it had a deep red saddle on it that looked the most appealing. 

Lyanna mounted the horse and found it responded to her well. She had named her last horse. Its body lay on the road behind her. As the three of them galloped off into the woods, Lyanna was determined not to name this one, too. 

—————————-

They didn’t get far before the sun was low in the sky. A camp was set up by Ser Arthur. Lyanna had built a fire, but found herself utterly exhausted. Arthur has gone off into the woods, to scout for enemies. She was alone with Prince Rhaegar. 

There were dead men not too far from here. Their bodies mangled and bleeding, soon to become bloated and decayed. Animals would eat them, ripping and tearing their flesh. Men Lyanna knew and loved. She couldn’t even bury them. 

Her breathing was becoming harder. A sense of panic took hold of her. All Lyanna could do was stare at the fire in horror as she shivered uncontrollably. 

“Was this the first time you’ve seen someone die?” he asked, seeming to sense her mood. Lyanna took a deep breath and looked into his purple eyes. 

“No. I saw an old milkmaid keel over once when I was a child.” The memory of it was distant, remote. She remembered the woman staring at her, eyes wide as she fell to the ground. Of the chaos that gripped the courtyard as people ran around the fallen woman. What Lyanna remembered the most was her eyes. 

“Not the same as this. As murder, is it?” His eyes were soft with pity. Lyanna felt shame at being drawn to them, wanting to drown in them. 

Her hands were shaking, still caked in the blood from before, unsure whose blood it actually was. She rubbed them together in increasing fury. The Prince sighed softly and crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. After a minute of holding them still, he reached behind him and unslung a water skin. With one hand he poured cool, clean water onto her hands as he rubbed away the blood with the other. 

A sense of calm washed over her, like the water over her hands. Where that was cool, the feeling was warm and comfortable. Breathing became easier. 

“Was this the first murder you’ve seen?” She regretted it as soon as she said it. Rhaegar looked at her, his face a mask. “Sadly not. Not with Aerys Targaryen as my father.”

While his face was a mask, his eyes weren’t. In the light she could see them, when he turned towards her. They held pain in them, deep and old. He glanced away again. Lyanna thought he was the loneliest person she had ever met. 

Her fingers were cold and soaked, Prince Rhaegar dropped the water skin and took her hands in both of his, rubbing them softly, the friction cleaning the blood off of them and warming them. Even the signet ring he wore was warm against her skin. 

“Did he...has he ever hurt you?” Her voice was small, like a child’s. She wasn’t sure how to proceed with the Prince, he made her feel less like herself than anyone she’d ever met. 

He glanced down at her hands, which looked small in his. “He doesn’t have to hurt me,” Prince Rhaegar said, his voice detached, “all he has to do is hurt those around me.” 

Lyanna looked down to their hands, his covering hers, and felt a slight rumble in her belly, which caused a shiver down her spine. Rhaegar noticed it and grabbed her hands, tighter. “He has enough of the people I care for in his grasp,” she looked to his eyes which were burning with an intensity that stilled her, “I won’t allow him to get his hands on anyone else I care for.”

Lyanna slipped her hands from his, watching his face fall slightly as she did. But then, shocking even herself, she grabbed his hands, caressing his palms and entwining their fingers together. He smiled at her, slightly, as she did. 

They sat there, staring into each other’s eyes, hands held as the sun set next to them, turning the sky from white and grey to red and then black. 

————————————-

They weaved their way south for a few days, then west. To Lyanna, it seemed pointless meandering designed to torment her restlessness. But to Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar, there was method to this madness. 

_Rhaegar._ Being around him, this close to him was intoxicating. She could feel the pull between them, was it an attraction? Lyanna was certainly attracted to him. 

His confession to her at Harrenhal that he had never loved or been loved by a lover was on Lyanna’s mind. A voice inside of her head, growing louder with each day and each interaction — a touch of hands by the fire, a hand on a shoulder, the way they kept moving closer to each other when sleeping around the fire — suggested something she couldn’t and shouldn’t allow. 

_I could love you. But more importantly, I think you could love me._

Could she love him? Should she love him? The feelings she was circling towards were dangerous, regardless of their answers. She was betrothed to another. Robert Baratheon, just thinking of him, his big hands covered with hair, the way he laughed and leered at any woman with a pair of tits, made her both angry and nauseous. ‘We must all do our duty, Lyanna,’ her father said when she begged him to break the betrothal. ‘But you will be his Queen,’ he said as he informed her of his plotting. 

That had been what she told Rhaegar outside Harrenhal, when he found her with the shield. She had been expecting a dragon’s wroth, but instead the Knight of the Laughing Tree was me by the Laughing Prince, astonished at her gall. They shared a skin of water and talked. And like a foolish maiden she told him of her father’s plots. 

In reward for her truths and her honor, he had crowned her. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could see the flowers on her laps, the eyes of thousands of people on her, the way their smiles died; instantly. 

Some of the realm wanted the Targaryens gone. Aerys was mad, certainly. But Rhaella was beloved. Rhaenys and Aegon and Elia were free of Aerys’ taint. And Rhaegar...

Could he love her? Could Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, love anyone? He seem to love his mother and children. That much was clear to Lyanna. The way he spoke with glowing pride about his little girl Rhaenys and the fire within was proof enough. 

Elia, though, his wife, was another story. “We are fond of each other,” he said to her at Harrenhal. “But her heart belongs to another. It will never be mine.” Who that man was, Lyanna didn’t know. But even with two children, it was clear that Rhaegar and Elia didn’t have passion for each other. 

Her reverie was broken by the sound of song. The Prince had a harp in his hands, not the silver one he played in the Great Hall of Harrenhal, a small, plain one. His voice was smooth and sad and beautiful, the melody haunting. Lyanna watched, enraptured as his hands plucked the strings deftly and his lips moved with the words:

 _”An ancient evil arises once more,_  
From a cold and dreadful place.  
No wall can stop their evil spreading,  
The dead come slow and steady.

__

The sun will leave and ne’er be seen,  
Darkness comes and will never leave.  
Death’s cold grip will be so numbing.  
No one can stop the winter coming. 

_Only one can bring the dawn._  
Only one can stop their spread.  
Blood of fire in his veins.  
For all time we’ll sing his name.”

Silence spread as the song ended and the Prince laid down his harp. It took a moment for Lyanna to realize that there were tears in her eyes. She wiped at them quickly, annoyed that Rhaegar Targaryen had made her cry with his songs again. 

“Don’t you know any happy songs?” she huffed as she crossed her arms against her. “All you sing is sad songs meant to make maidens cry.”

For a moment he stared across the fire, shock plain on his face. Then he smiled slightly. “My Lady, forgive me. I should be used to your boldness by now. Are you sure you’re not of Valyrian blood? There’s fire within you.”

Mirth spread across his face. Lyanna felt a lightness within her, too. “If I were perhaps you’d have married me, instead.” 

The lightness left his face immediately. “If you’re upset,” he started as his face closed to all emotion, “then I apologize. But what I told you in Harrenhal...that wasn’t. I’m not…”

She had made him flustered. The Crown Prince of Westeros was stuttering like some green boy who had never wooed a woman before. Perhaps he really hadn’t. Lyanna found herself standing and walking towards him. 

“No, please I didn’t mean it like that,” she closed the distance between them until she was close enough to grab his hand and entwine it with hers. “Rhaegar, please.”

“Rhaegar?” he asked and she could hear the slightest hint of joy in his voice as he stared at their hands. “My lady, I...our feelings...we can not do this. You are a Lady, promised to the Lord Robert Baratheon, a powerful man. Your father promised you himself.”

He pulled away from her and she felt the loss of his contact deep within her. The mention of Robert, that foolish man, set her blood to boil. She would never forgive her father for their betrothal. Ned, too, another foolish man. Blinded by a drunken lecher who slapped people’s backs and fucked his way through the Seven Kingdoms. 

“I don’t care what my Lord Father says. Nor my brothers. There is nothing and no one that I would marry Robert Baratheon for. Am I some mere broodmare, to be sold and bartered like an animal?!”

He gave no reaction to her rant, just stared into the fire and brooded. It made her anger increase. Lyanna stood and paced, finding herself full of energy, suddenly. She spun back to Rhaegar, drawn to him. 

“He has at least one bastard babe that he doesn’t even see. What type of parent abandons their child? And a bastard? Doesn’t he know what a terrible life that is for a child?”

Again, he made no move, gave nothing away. Frustrated beyond belief, Lyanna stepped towards him, grabbed his face and pressed her lips to his. Rhaegar’s lips were dry and she could taste the wine they had with dinner on them. Her eyes were open and Lyanna could see the shock cross the Prince’s face. 

He pulled away from her, after that quick and chaste kiss. It dawned on her that she had kissed a man for the first time. That man was also the married Crown Prince of Westeros. “My lady,” he muttered as his tongue shot out of his mouth, licking his lips. Lyanna had a sudden need to lick those lips, to taste that tongue. She felt a surge of desire flow through her, settling low in her belly. It terrified her. 

The fear and panic gripped her. Had she stepped over a line? They dissipated, though, when Rhaegar’s hands grasped her face. His thumbs stroked her cheeks softly and Lyanna found herself leaning into his touch. He bent his head toward hers. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, wanting him to kiss her, wanting him to claim her. 

His lips found her forehead, instead and her desire was doused with a bucket of cold water. 

“Go to sleep, my lady. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

It would be a long night. 

————————————-

The next morning, the three of them were sitting around the fire. Ser Arthur spoke, staring at Prince Rhaegar. 

“To crown someone is to kill them,” the knight muttered softly. “Queen Rhaella is fond of saying, at least.”

“My mother is the wisest person I know, Arthur. And the bravest.” A shadow crossed the Prince’s face for a moment, then left as suddenly as it had appeared, “Well, save for this lady here, mayhaps.”

“Lady Lyanna is…fierce,” Ser Arthur admitted. 

Lyanna chuckled at that. “This arse crowned me,” she pointed across the fire to Prince Rhaegar, “Ser Arthur. Did he kill me?”

Rhaegar and Arthur stared at each other in shock before the Sword or the Morning started chuckling. “Did you just call the Crown Prince an ‘arse’, my lady?” Ser Arthur’s face was full of mirth. Rhaegar’s was more guarded, his beautiful features giving nothing away, but Lyanna saw the twinkle in his eyes. She smiled brightly at his question, feeling lighter than she had in days. 

“Aye, I did, Ser Arthur. I always try and tell the truth.”

The Knight smiled at her before looking at Prince Rhaegar. “I reckon you’re right, my lady. He can be an arse.” They were all smiling now. Even Prince Rhaegar had one, a small and weak one, but a smile, nonetheless. Lyanna wondered how beautiful he would look with an actual smile on his face. 

“It’s quite a conundrum, my good Ser. He’s both an arse and a pain in the arse. A rare thing.”

They all exploded in laughter. Even her moody Prince. 

Finally, he smiled. Truly and brightly. It was one of the more gorgeous things Lyanna had ever seen. The way it reached his eyes, turning his purple eyes into precious gems, thrilled her. She found herself wanting to drown in them, to act a fool for the rest of her life it meant seeing those eyes shining like that. 

The realization dawned on her amidst the laughter. She loved him. Rhaegar Targaryen. The married Crown Prince of Westeros. She was truly fucked. 

As if he could sense her thoughts, Rhaegar’s laughter died quickly, his broody scowl snapping back into place. He was staring at her, through her it seemed with those eyes, darker now. “Perhaps I have, my lady.” The sadness in his voice wiped the smile off her face, replaced it with confusion. 

“Killed you, that is.”

A stunned silence took hold of her. Ser Arthur had the manners to look away, Dawn on his lap, cleaning it with an oiled rag. Lyanna stared at Rhaegar, tried to see his meaning but she could find none. No sign of mirth was evident. The moment between them stretched on and on. Until Lyanna could take no more and reached next to her, grabbed a big pebble and hurled it at his head. 

“Ow,” he said as he reached for the top of his head. He rubbed his hand across it, checking for blood. “What was that?”

“There, my Prince,” she said with as much scorn as she could muster. “Now I’ve crowned you. Have I killed you?”

He looked at her, hand on his head and the smile reappeared. The slight one, stiff and sad. Lyanna though, would take whatever he gave her. She wanted to kiss him, there, on the corner of his mouth, just below the dimple that formed with his smile. 

“Valar Morghulis,” he muttered

—————————————

The days followed the nights, slowly they made their way south. Lyanna had begged Rhaegar and Arthur to head North, swing around the Twins and show up at Moat Cailin, where her father’s bannermen would protect her, but the Sword of the Morning denied her. “That’s what they’re expecting, my lady,” he said with a grimace. “The King has spread the word through the Riverlands. Any sellsword worth a damn will be waiting just south of the Neck to get you. At the ports, too.”

So they rode on, south, snaking their way through the Riverlands. 

Neither she nor Rhaegar had mentioned the kiss since it had occurred. Their interactions were stilted and awkward, though Lyanna could sense their attraction growing with each glance and touch between them. 

But behind all of it was the threat. She was a wanted woman, her life in peril. The King wanted her, wanted the Knight of the Laughing Tree, desperately. ‘Treason’ the mad man had called it. No amount of attraction between her and his son could save her should he get his claws on her. Shame built in her, not for the first time, nor the last, she suspected. 

She had set this in motion. All of this, the death of her guards, her horse, because she had to act. Her father’s man was being embarrassed and she jumped to defend him. 

One night she was sleeping when a hand found her mouth. Rhaegar was crouched over her, his finger pressed to his lips as his eyes begged for her silence. He stood with his sword drawn, as he spoke with ice in his voice, “Who goes there?”

“An old bat,” came a voice from the darkness. Her prince lowered his sword and let out a laugh as Ser Arthur and another man came from the darkness. “This one breathes so loud I could hear him from miles away,” Arthur said, patting the stranger on the back. 

“Your grace,” the man said as he took a knee and bent his head. Rhaegar looked slightly abashed and motioned for the man to rise. “Please, my friend. I’m glad you found us.”

The trio turned to her. “My lady, this is Ser Oswell Whent. An old and trusted friend.”

The knight bowed to her before settling next to the fire. Ser Arthur And Prince Rhaegar settled on either side of him, the Prince as far from Lyanna as he could get. That rankled her. 

“It’s all very quiet. I left court with orders from King Aerys himself to bring the Lady Lyanna to King’s Landing to face justice.” She noticed the look of disgust that crossed Prince Rhaegar’s face at the mention of the King. 

“Obviously that won’t happen.” Rhaegar stated.  
“Which means we are back with the tower in Dorne as the only option. Aerys has no eyes there. Varys can’t reach it.”

“Dorne?!” Lyanna asked, screaming. Anger was coursing through her. “Dorne?! You are taking me to Dorne? Am I your prisoner?”

Silence greeted her outburst. The Prince nodded at Ser Arthur and he walked away from the fire, Whent going with him. She was alone with Rhaegar. He stood and walked over to her, sitting next to her. 

“I don’t know what other options we have, my lady,” his eyes were on her, pleading, “we can’t go anywhere else. Even Winterfell isn’t safe. If we go there, my father will go after you. War would follow.”

Guilt and shame filled her, every part and she turned her head. This was her fault. All of it. She felt like crying and hurling and crawling into a hole to die. 

“Let him have me,” she said, finally, still unable to look at him. “Let him do what he will with me. If it avoids a war…”

His hand found hers and he pulled her towards him, forcing her to look at him. 

“Never. I will never let him get you.”

She reached a hand up and caressed his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. When he opened his eyes again they stared at each other, silent but for their increasingly heavy breaths. Finally, an acceptance washed over him and he grabbed her face and kissed her. 

The chaste kiss from days ago was gone. Their lips moved, greedily, hungrily and awkwardly. He slipped his tongue out, licking her lips and she moaned in his mouth, only increasing the desperation of their kissing. 

He pulled her into his lap, breaking the kiss for a brief flash, before moving back to her and continuing, sucking on her bottom lip. She could feel his erection growing through his breeches and rubbed against him, slightly. 

When they broke again to breathe, she released his lip with a loud pop. His arms encircled hers as they caught their breaths, Lyanna wanted more, though and reached down to his cock, trapped still in his breeches. 

Rhaegar grabbed her hand, stopping it. 

“No,” he said his face flushed, his lips red and swollen, his breathing ragged. “No further. I will not dishonor you.”

It wasn’t a rejection. She knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him. So Lyanna stayed on his lap and pressed herself to him, holding on tightly. 

They sat there for some time, her head on his shoulder, before he spoke. 

“Elia and I have talked about this. She would allow me a second wife, one for love, if I allow her to seek the one she loves. The dragon must have three heads.”

Wife? Her? A Queen? Her thoughts were a jumble, but an image flashed before her clear as a bell; she was running through the Red Keep chasing a little boy with silver hair as he laughed. 

She realized that he was looking for a reaction. 

“If you’ll have me, that is.” 

She took a deep breath before she started, “I….Marriage? But. Would I be your Queen? What about children? Would they be legitimate?”

His hand found her face again, “Yes. You would be Queen Lyanna Targaryen. Our children would be behind Rhaenys and Aegon in the succession.”

She should have found his answer cold and clinical but there was only love in his eyes when he said it. He seemed so hopeful, like a little boy looking for acceptance. 

“Yes,” she said, sealing it with a kiss. “I would have you, Rhaegar. I will be your wife.”

When she pulled away from him, his face was shining with happiness, smiling deeply and fully. 

“But I have a condition.”

————————————

She had awoken with a start, from a nightmare she barely remembered. There had been a man who looked like Ned, brown hair and sad, grey eyes. But then he killed her? Or did he stab her in the belly? All Lyanna remembered was bleeding out of her lower body; gut and snatch. 

Instinctively she reached for her belly and rubbed it gently as she looked around. Oswell and Arthur were gone. The fire had burned out. Rhaegar was sleeping next to her. “Leave her alone,” he muttered, dreaming. “My mother,” he continued as he rolled towards her. Some of his long silver hair had spilled over his face as he turned. Lyanna reached out and tucked it behind his ear, smiling as her touch woke him. 

They woke for the last time as strangers. Today they would marry on the Isle of Faces, in front of a weirwood tree, Lyanna’s condition of marriage some weeks ago. Since then they had made their way south. Ser Oswell left the party for a few days and sent letters she wrote to Winterfell and her father and to Riverrun telling of her impending nuptials to the Prince. Once she was married to Rhaegar, she would be much safer from Aerys. 

He had returned with no news. Lyanna’s absence hadn’t been noted, according to those around Harrenhal. They also didn’t seem to know the Mad King was looking for her, which was very strange. 

None of that, though, was on her mind as she boarded a boat with Rhaegar. Howland Reed had once told her how he made it to the island, a winding and meandering route that she told her Prince to follow to the letter. He seemed pleasantly annoyed at her standing at the prow, pointing directions. 

The mists that had always blanketed the isle parted upon their approach. A small gap in it appeared, like a drawbridge on a castle wall. She shivered as they sailed slowly through the fog, unmolested and the island appeared before them. 

By midday they had reached the shore. The island was a veritable forest in the middle of the lake. Pines and maples and oaks stood sentinel on the outside, hiding rock outcroppings that had been hollowed out. As Lyanna walked past, hand in hand with her love, she saw movement from the rocks. 

What seemed to be children stepped out of the shadows and into the light. As they got closer, she saw they weren’t children, they weren’t even human. These were the Children of the Forest, tiny creatures with deep gold eyes and hair as green as moss. Their gold eyes stared deep at Lyanna and she shifted closer to Rhaegar. 

A man in a green robe appeared before them, seemingly from nowhere, with a knowing smile on his face. “Your graces. Come. We have been expecting you.” 

He motioned them to follow him, so they did. “What is your name?” Rhaegar asked. The answer, though was lost to her ears when she stepped into the great weirwood grove at the heart of the island and gasped in awe. 

A ring of weirwoods, dozens strong, set the borders of the grove. Their barks were pale and white, faces marked all of them. Each tree held a different face. One had a fierce smile, another was weeping tears of blood. There was a face with one red eye and the other gouged out. Next to it was a smaller, younger tree that was crowned in horns. All of them had the familiar red leaves, forming a canopy of red, filtering the sun through them, casting the grove in a pale and pink light. 

At its heart was a stone altar, ancient and massive. Dark stains ran down the pale stone from above, moss ran up the side from below.

“Let us join you as man and wife.”

The ceremony was quick. Lyanna lacked a proper dress, she wore riding leathers and the gauntlets that had been Harwold’s. Rhaegar had promised to have a much grander ceremony for her when they were free of the Mad King. She appreciated the sentiment, but would always consider this her wedding. 

Their pact was sealed with a kiss. Lyanna had married a Prince. It should have been the happiest moment of her life, but here, amongst the old gods, she felt naked and exposed. 

The Children of the Forest had reappeared and encircled them. After their kiss was finished, they started singing in a foreign tongue. Lyanna thought it was the Old Tongue, but couldn’t be quite sure. Whatever the language,i the music was mournful and sad but finished on a hopeful note. 

“What song was that?” She asked when they had finished. 

“An old song, one that the children have been singing for eons. ‘A song of ice and fire,’ it is called,” the old man in the green robes said. 

Rhaegar looked shocked as he gaped at the old man. His face went pale. 

“But I thought…”

The old man cut him off with a raised hand. “That’s is your problem, young man. You think far too much. Now we leave you. The old gods will bear witness to the sealing of your pact.”

He and the children moved away from them, away from the grove and after a moment she was alone with Rhaegar. Fear and anxiety and anticipation and desire mixed in her, sending her emotions churning. 

Her husband was still staring after where the old man had walked out of the grove, his eyes wide. Something was bothering him. Was it her? Was the disappointment of the ceremony weighing on him?

Finally, he turned to her, shock still on his face. When he saw her distress, it vanished in a flash, concern replacing it. He closed the gap between them and kissed her, greedily. Still, tears fell from her eyes, slowly and silently. 

“Don’t cry, my Queen,” he said softly as he wiped at a tear with his thumb. “This is a happy day. One of the happiest days I’ve known.” 

But the melancholy that had taken hold of her wouldn’t relent. Still, she followed Rhaegar as he moved to the center of the grove and laid his cloak on the ground. Then he turned to her and started kissing her again. Her lips, her eyes, her cheek and her neck. As he worked his way down her body he removed her clothing, leaving a kiss on the flesh revealed under them. She helped him with the last bit and was fully naked in front of him.

He laid her down on the cloak, which was thick and soft. In a heartbeat, he too was naked and Lyanna took in his whole body. He was muscled but still thin, his pale skin broken up by silver hair on his chest, arms, legs and above his cock. Her husband was breathtakingly gorgeous. Even his cock, which Lyanna had heard many a women complain and call bulbous and ugly on other men, was beautiful as it laid half hard against his leg. 

She opened her arms to him as he laid next to her returning to his kisses. When they were breathless, he moved down, taking a pink nipple in his mouth and sucking gently. “This can be painful for maiden,” he said after releasing her nipple with a soft pop. “But I will make sure your pain is mixed with pleasure.”

His hand went down to her mound, rubbing gently. Lyanna thought, as the pleasure built inside of her, of her husband plucking the strings on his silver harp and felt a small chuckle escape her . Her breathing was becoming ragged as he parted her folds and rubbed. When he found the pearl and moved his face down to suck it gently, the wave of pleasure created and fell over her as she came, loudly, with the old gods staring back at her, silently. 

When she came down, the pleasure was chased with pain as Rhaegar had entered her. She hissed lightly, drawing a mumbled ‘sorry’ from him. The pain was intense, it felt as her body was resisting him. But he pumped again and again, pushing a little further and further. Her pain never lessened as he filled her, but it wasn’t alone anymore. A sense of being full, of the spark of pleasure took hold in her alongside the pain. It wasn’t long before she was lost in the rhythm, chasing that spark as he started rutting into her erratically.

Her husband spilled his seed inside her with a long moan and that spark inside of her exploded, softly. It was a gentle wave compared to the giant one from before, but she felt more complete this time, with Rhaegar on top of her, kissing her, inside of her. Her tears were happy as they pressed their foreheads together, catching their breaths and kissing languidly. 

————————————-

After they returned, things seemed different, somehow. Rhaegar called her “My Queen,” but that was just a pet name as she wasn’t a Queen. Not yet. The two Kingsguard called her “Princess Lyanna” and when Ser Oswell first called her that she laughed for half an hour at the absurdity of it all. Her, Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, a girl of one and six, a bloody Princess. 

They rode on, south and east, avoiding the roads and snaking through the Riverlands by day. At night she and Rhaegar found each other, sealing their union, sometimes more than once a night and occasionally in the morning, too. 

She wanted him, gods how she wanted him. His lips and his fingers and his cock. She loved the taste of him, the feel of him, all of it. Some nights they fucked softly holding onto each other and she felt so loved that it felt her heart would explode. But there were times when her Prince shoved her against a tree or a rock and fucked her hard, pinning her and chasing his own pleasure and Lyanna felt like a wanton whore with how much she loved that, too. 

They had found an abandoned barn one night, in the rain. Her husband had brought her a flower . He often did, usually a wild one that most thought weeds. She liked those the best. Today it was a dandelion, a single one and she laughed at the solemnity on his face when he went to one knee and presented it to her. 

She and Rhaegar slept in the loft, amongst old hay and cobwebs. His cloak, musty from the long travel was their mattress. He had barely taken his clothes off before she had pushed him on his back, taking his member in her hand, working it until hard and slinking down on it with a moan. 

“I want a baby,” she whispered to him as she rode him. A truth she had been wrestling with for some time. “I want your baby. A boy with silver hair and grey eyes.”

He moaned into her mouth, rolling her onto her back and fucked her with abandon. When he came inside her, it was harder than she had ever felt. “It will be a girl, our child. A girl with brown hair like yours. Her name will be Visenya. The dragon must have three heads.” She bit his nose lightly at that. “Mmm,” she said, stretching languidly, “I want a boy. We can name him for your maester uncle, Aemon. He will be hand to his brother, Aegon.” 

Rhaegar took her twice more that night. The last time, he rolled her on her side and took her from behind, gripping her hips hard, his ring digging into her side, and chased his own release. When he came, he stayed inside her and finished her with his hand. She fell asleep, sweet bruises on her hips, entangled with him, praying for a child. 

—————————

They had been weeks on the road. It had been the most boring and thrilling time of her life. At some point Ser Oswell had bought a straw hat for Rhaegar, to cover his silver locks. He had grumbled to them all, mightily, about being a “bloody prince” but wore it nonetheless. Mocking him for it quickly became a beloved pastime. Lyanna’s was near constant, but Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell each got in their fair share. 

He looked so absurd, astride a horse, sword on his hip, golden ring shining in the sun, straw hat on his head. Lyanna would look at him from time to time and just laugh. When he became aware that she was laughing at her, he would just stick his tongue out towards her, mocking her back. 

Had she ever been so happy in her life? 

No one had recognized them as they exited the Riverlands and made their way towards the Stormlands. The landscape changed from greens, ranging from deep to light, to yellows and oranges. News was scarce. Oswell and Arthur would go into towns and villages from time to time, but they would return with the same answer: nothing was wrong. 

Her letter to her brother and father must have reached them. Lyanna was sure they’d be livid, but she wasn’t theirs anymore. She was Princess Lyanna, wife of the Prince if Dragonstone and she was done listening to her father and brothers. Sometimes she would imagine their conversations and smile. Did Ned tell Robert? That thought had also pleased her. Robert Baratheon, all bluster and anger at losing her. How many whores would leave with bastards in their bellies because of this? 

“We are here,” Rhaegar said one morning, as they came through a small gully to a clearing. In front of her were ruins, once grand and awe inspiring, now broken and charred. Roofs had collapsed, walls with them and nature had reclaimed their land. Vines and bushes and grasses and even trees had sprouted around the stone that had remained. The sun shined brightly in the sky, and the colors around her exploded; reds and oranges and yellows and greens. It took her breath away. 

“Summerhall, my Queen,” her husband said pulling his horse next to hers. They dismounted and walked the ruins, his hand in hers. She said nothing as she watched him, his face full of emotions as he took in the scenery. 

“It is my favorite place in the world,” he muttered, picking up a piece of burnt stone in his hand. “It is also the bane of my house. The place I was born, the day so many of my family died.”

“You’re here now, my love,” she said, wrapping an arm around him. “And your family hasn’t seen it’s end.”

“No. It hasn’t,” came an old and creaky voice from behind them. When she turned, Lyanna saw a woman, aged and twisted and stunted, like a small tree. No more than three feet tall, the woman had long white hair and red eyes. Her steps made little noise as she walked while hunched over a cane. 

“Didn’t we feast on enough tragedy at this place, boy?” she asked as her red eyes fell to Rhaegar. “Why bring me back?”

“You are here of your own free will. I know you saw me in the trees, witch, saw us. You also know why you are here. Why I need you.”

The crone hobbled up to them, deftly maneuvering around the rubble. When she came before Lyanna, she let go of her cane, but through some magic, it still stood straight. Her hands grasped Lyanna’s and looked at them, whispering words only she knew. 

“Kneel, girl,” she said in a voice Lyanna thought kindly. As she went to her knees, the witch took her face into her mangled hands. Red eyes found hers and Lyanna felt naked and alone. She shivered mightily. The witch stared back deeply, before looking at Lyanna confusingly and blinking. 

“Well,” Rhaegar said rudely, “what do you see?”

The crone sighed and let Lyanna go, shuffling back to her still erect cane. “Many things, foolish boy, many things. Your wife is pregnant with your babe, for one.”

The news hit her like a bolt of lightning. Her whole body was buzzing. “Pregnant,” she asked quietly, her hands dropping to her belly. She looked to Rhaegar who was smiling brightly at the news and grabbed her hands. 

“Excellent news. The third head. Visenya.”

“Still haven’t changed have you? Still so certain of your righteousness? It’s a boy.”

Her husband blinked furiously in response. Dropping her hands. “What?” he asked the witch. 

“Yes, a boy,” she said as she walked back into the rubble. “You won’t believe me, though, foolish child. But your wife will. Boy or girl, I see pain in their future. Darkness and pain. Some joy, usually fleeting, yes. But he shall sup on loneliness and hurt.” The crone turned behind a hedge and vanished from view. 

“Pain? What pain? What happens to my son?” Lyanna asked, panic gripping her as she moved towards the witch. But when she got to the hedge and looked behind it, the witch was gone. 

“Lya,” Rhaegar said, grabbing her arm, “she is gone.” Her husband took her hand in his. “And very dramatic, too. But she is wrong in this. Her sorcery is of a mummer’s kind. She’s been wrong about so much before.”

“But those words. Our son, Rhaegar, she said he would be in pain and darkness. Lonely. How? Why?” Her thoughts were a jumble, her mind racing. She welcomed when Rhaegar pressed against her, his heat warming her, his mouth distracting her. 

She tried to push the dark words from her mind but couldn’t, even when they were naked. Rhaegar was lying on his back, as Lyanna took him in her mouth, working his cock with one hand and using the other to rub herself to completion. Even when his seed hit her throat, when her release came soon after, she couldn’t put the words from her mind. 

————————————

“The locals don’t have a name for it,” Ser Arthur told them as the short tower stood before them. They had ridden from Summerhall all the way to the edge of Dorne, the heat and sun getting stronger by the day. The tower was red, same as the mountains around it. It looked sad and small against those mountains. 

“I shall call it the Tower of Joy,” Rhaegar said, a tight smile on his face. 

It had been some weeks since the Ghost of High Heart had said her words amongst the ruins. And since then, Lyanna felt a growing sense of dread in her stomach. Her relationship with Rhaegar had grown slightly strained as the days passed. Even their lovemaking, which was once burning bright as dragonflame, had cooled, somewhat. He could still make her peak with an alarming ease, his fingers played her as deftly as a harp, but the completeness she felt with him sheathed inside her was lessened. 

The first few days in the Tower had eased that, somewhat. Lyanna had access to a bed and bath. She could sleep on a mattress, bathe in a tub and fuck her husband in both. Which she did, gladly. Ser Arthur left them for Starfall shortly after they arrived and Ser Oswell spent most of his time riding up and down the pass in front of the tower. That left her time alone with Rhaegar. 

She wanted to spend it riding and picking flowers, fucking and eating peaches from his hand. Instead, he usually read from the same few books he had taken from King’s Landing when he set out some moons ago. He wrote letters and composed songs. Lyanna felt lonely with him at times, for reasons she could never put into words. Rare was the time when he would walk the small garden with her and pick her flowers. Lyanna treasured every one he gave her. 

But then he would lay his head on her lap and speak to their babe. “Papa loves you, Visenya. Rhaenys and Aegon will love you, too.” He composed a song called “The Dragon and the Wolf” about their union. It was sweet and lovely and she felt like the happiest woman in the world. 

Yet the other Rhaegar would show himself, too. Moody and broody and sad. He would mumble about prophecy and end times. Once, he even asked her everything she knew about the Others and she told him the spooky tales Nan had told her and her brothers as children as he sat enraptured. 

Weeks passed and her belly grew bigger and bigger. She had heard some women got very sick in the mornings during their pregnancies but Lyanna didn’t, which made her feel lucky. But as the babe grew larger and started kicking and moving, sleep grew harder and harder. It was hot, oppressively so and she missed Winterfell, the North, fiercely. 

The feel of cool, clean air on your face, the flush that would creep up your cheeks from it, the smell of pine and wood, the feel of it. She missed it all. But nothing more than her family. Her papa and brothers, because no matter how angry they had made her around Harrenhal, they were a pack. 

She wanted to bathe in the pools of the godswood with Rhaegar, make love to him beneath its branches, teach her son to ride a horse in the Wolfswood, to walk the crypts with him and introduce the boy to her mama. 

It was a happy thought and one she held onto, fiercely. Until Ser Arthur returned from Starfall, bearing his family’s midwife. And news from the capitol. 

————————————-

She saw them in her sleep, whenever she would close her eyes. Her papa, roasting in his armor, Bran as he died, slowly choking, reaching for a sword. Even there, in that never ending nightmare, she could smell the burning flesh. But waking brought no relief, only guilt. Ceaseless, crushing guilt. 

There were times she couldn’t catch her breath and she’d pass out on the bed, only to wake and feel her chest being pressed again, the shame crushing her. 

It was all her fault. All of it, all because she had to show how noble she was, defend her land and her people. Papa, Brandon, dead. Brutally murdered by the Mad King, her good father, whose grandchild she carried in her belly. 

The first few nights the tears flowed and flowed and never stopped. Rhaegar had come to comfort her, only to be shut out time and time again. He had eventually stopped coming. She couldn’t deal with him, with their marriage. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

His father brutally murdered her family. And demanded Ned’s head. Ned, who only wanted to love Ashara and live a peaceful life, the Lord of Winterfell. Headed to war. For vengeance, justice and, according to Ser Arthur, for her. 

Part of her, like her belly, growing larger each day, wanted him to win. To toss down the dragons and bring the justice she desperately wanted. But then she was a dragon, wasn’t she? Was it not a dragon in her womb? Did their Targaryen blood make her child’s siblings evil? Was Rhaegar evil?

He came to her room last night, placing a bouquet of fresh picked flowers on the table next to her, knelt beside her bed and told her Ser Gerold had come, to take his place. Her husband was off to war, off to fight for the father that murdered hers, off to fight against her brother. Lyanna couldn’t bear the thought of losing another wolf to her folly. So she begged Rhaegar to spare Ned’s life. He looked her in the eyes and said he couldn’t promise that, war was hectic. 

“I go to war not for my father, but for you. And Elia. Rhaenys and Aegon and Visenya, too. What happens to my family if Robert Baratheon wins? What happens to you? Do you think he will accept you with open arms when my babe is on your teat? No. He will kill you and our babe should I fall. But I won’t. This is not how I die.”

He rose to leave, but before he did, he slid his ring off and placed it on the end table, next to the flowers he still picked for her. His sad eyes looked her up and down. 

“For our babe, should I not be there to welcome her into the world,” he said quietly. “I know you might mislike me. As is your right. But I will never not love you. No matter what. If you want to go home to Winterfell after the war, I will let you. And I will wait by my window everyday praying for your return, as I selfishly hope you will do mine. But now, my love, I must leave.”

She knew she had to say something, anything to close the distance between them. But her anger and sadness and overwhelming guilt prevented her from professing her love for him. Instead, when she opened her mouth she choked out, “I hate you.” 

His face fell and he closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, they were filled with unshed tears. He offered her a shaky and tremulous smile as he stood and exhaled. Then, Rhaegar Targaryen strode from her room and closed the door behind him. 

She had heard the men clamoring outside, the next morning before dawn. Sleep had eluded her, yet again, so she rose and went to the window. There were three in white armor, talking to Rhaegar, as he mounted his horse. The dozen men at arms Ser Gerold took with him from the capitol were down the path a bit, already astride their horse. 

Lyanna saw her husband look up to her window and instinctively, she reached for him. She couldn’t see if he had noticed the wave, or even noticed her. But he paused for a moment, before taking the reins and smoothly turning his horse towards the path, away from her. 

The raven came more than a moon later. Lyanna, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, of House Stark, was a widow. 

She collapsed in a heap, sobbing hysterically and grasping her belly, as Ser Arthur called for the midwife to attend her. 

————————————-

Starfall was breathtakingly beautiful, but Lyanna felt none of it. All she could do was hold her babe in one arm and her brother in another. They gave them rooms next to each other but she got the feeling they weren’t staying long. A servant came to guide them to Ashara’s room and they followed. 

The room was big and open and richly adorned. Giant doors, framed by fluttering curtains of white lace, led to a balcony with views of the rivers and sea that promised to be gorgeous. A table sat in a corner, on it was a metal box, sealed shut. In the middle of the room was a massive bed, four posts holding a silk canopy of indigo that reminded her of his eyes so much that she had to look away, down at their child as she held him to her tightly. 

Ned quickly left her side and ran to the head of he bed and the woman lying in it. “Ash,” he said his voice thick with concern as he grabbed her hands. “My Ned,” she whispered, a frail hand lifting to caress his cheek. The sight of their intimacy made Lyanna uncomfortable. She had half a mind to leave the room for the solar when Ashara called for her, patting the spot next to her, opposite her brother. 

“Let me see him,” she rasped as Lyanna sat on the bed beside her. She cooed weakly as Lyanna presented her babe to the frail lady. “Has he a name?” Purple eyes found hers and she nodded. “Aegon,” she said softly as shame built in her. 

But Ashara smiled at that. “Good. Good.” She looked at Ned, her soft smile becoming hard and bitter and spat, “Fuck the Usurper. He killed one Aegon. Make sure he doesn’t get this one.” Ned tensed as she spoke, but said nothing, continuing to caress her hand in his. Turning back to Lyanna, she spoke again. “Are you prepared to do what is needed to ensure his survival?”

The dread filled her belly. She knew what she would have to do. The thing she ran from in the first place, that had she accepted when she should have, would have meant thousands of saved lives. She fled from it and the realm bled for it and now, for her son, she would have to face it. Face him. 

She nodded weakly. Ashara lifted her hand and pointed at the table in the corner, to the thick metal box. “There. She’s there.” Dread filled in her belly as they all looked to the box. “Our babe, Ned. I called her Nymeria. She had brown hair like you and purple eyes like me.”

Another dead baby. This time her niece. All because of her. The tears came, again, fiercely. Would they ever stop? She glanced at Ned who looked bereft, tears falling silently down his cheeks. Ashara, though, looked at her. 

“Don’t blame yourself. My babe was never going to live. The midwife said she choked on her cord.” She placed a hand on Lyanna’s knee, patting gently. “They will examine you. They will know. He will know. Use my babe to ensure yours survives. Don’t let her death be in vain.”

Her grey eyes found Ashara’s purple for a moment, and their joint grief and and anger found cause. It was broken by the cries of the baby in her arms. The horror that Lyanna was facing could no longer be avoided. She held the baby close to her, gently soothing him. 

The baby she was going to have to give up to protect. 

“He cries for his cousin,” Ashara whispered, the pain on her face evident. Lyanna shuffled closer to her and handed her baby to the Lady Dayne. Aegon was silently fussing in her arms, but soon calmed. Ashara turned to Ned and for a moment the two of them shared their grief with the baby between them. 

It was a goodbye, Lyanna realized. To each other, to their dead daughter and the life they could have had. A life that was possible before Lyanna and Rhaegar. The guilt overwhelmed her, great gasping sobs that shook her whole body. Soon they were all crying, the adults and the babe. Mourning the lives that were lost, that would never be.

———————————-

The ship left Starfall a day later, the metal coffin of her niece in the hold. They had packed it with ice, to preserve the body. Howland Reed day vigil beside it to ensure no one would open it. Robert needed to see her niece’s eyes. Proof of the babe’s supposed Targaryen blood. Meanwhile, the actual Targaryen babe would be going to Winterfell with Ned. 

It had been a smooth trip, most of which Lyanna spent in her cabin with Aegon. Jon, as Ned was thinking of calling him. Jon Snow. Snow, a bastard of the North. She would never say his full name, not ever. To speak the words would somehow give them life. Her son was many things, but a bastard was not one of them. 

It was the small things he did that made her fall in love with him over and over. The way his little eyelashes fluttered as he slept in her arms, the way his little fingers flexed on her breasts as he fed from them. How he sighed, ever so slightly when he found her nipple. 

He had the Stark look, no one would doubt he was Ned’s son. It would protect him, certainly. But she saw Rhaegar in his face. The shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the little dimples on his cheeks when he smiled. She missed him, Rhaegar. They had parted in anger, but Lyanna still had not wrapped her mind around the idea that he was truly dead, never to return. She would still look for him when she woke, expecting to see him sleeping next to her, wanting to burrow into his arms. 

All that was left of him was what she held in her arms. 

Her son was sleeping soundly, he seemed to like boats, so Lyanna went to find her brother. 

She found Ned on the prow, staring out at the horizon, deep in thought. It was late at night, a full moon shining brightly in the sky. Lyanna joined him, leaning on the railing, enjoying the stillness of the ocean, the quiet of a sleeping ship. The warm wind and salt caressed her face and for a blissful moment she was herself again, free and happy. 

“I will call him Jon,” Ned said, breaking the moment. “It will help sell the lie. Catelyn named our babe Robb. The King and the Hand.”

His face was a mask, his pain and misery stuffed inside him, some place deep. The bitter grin that followed couldn’t hide his feelings. “You don’t have to marry him, Lya, it can be done without you marrying him .”

She shook her head, sadly. “No, it can’t. I’m going to head North with my son and pretend he’s not mine? Live in the same place as him, hear his cries and calls and not go running to him? I can’t do that. What other option is there? Run to Essos? He’d know, Ned. Robert would find out and he’d know and then everyone is in danger. Aegon. Me. You. Your family. He’d tear us apart. You know it.”

His silence was enough to prove her veracity. “I marry him. We tell him Nymeria was Rhaegar’s bastard. Born of...rape.” The last word came out with a stutter. Even to protect his son, she felt ashamed to play a role in sullying the memory of Rhaegar, to lie about the nature of their relationship. “Let Robert rage and rage. I will marry him and lay with him and if the gods are good, I will birth a son for him. This way Aegon can be protected. So his brains won’t wind up smashed on a wall somewhere, like his namesake.”

The thought of Elia and her children made her queasy and her legs uneasy. Ned reached out and grabbed her arms, holding her steady. When she closed her eyes all she saw were dead people, raped women, brutalized infants and all of it felt like her fault. 

“That murder…” Ned sighed and choked on a sob, “All these dead people. Dead children. For what? Robert sat on that Throne and condoned the rape and murder of an innocent woman. Of the savage murder of those little kids. He is not the man I thought he was. You were right about him, Lya.”

“But wrong about so much more,” she cut in. Her guilt was so overpowering that she could scarce breathe at times. 

“You will be in that snake pit all alone, Lya,” Ned warned. I will be unable to protect you in Winterfell.” She heard him grind his teeth, then sigh. 

“Benjen,” she responded, “he will come down if I ask him to. It’s just if Robert ever found out he’d kill Ben as well as me.”

“He’ll be there. I will make sure of it. I will send a raven from Tarth. The captain said we land there in the morn. Benjen won’t leave you alone.” His face was solemn, his words spoken like a vow. 

“In winter we must protect ourselves. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” Her father told them that when they were kids, would utter it after they had gotten into fights or arguments. Her father who was now dead, burned to nothing by the Mad King. 

“And Lyanna,” Ned said before finishing for her, “winter is coming.” 

That morning they landed on Tarth. Ned sent the raven to Ben in Winterfell, while Lyanna stayed aboard the ship. When he came back, though, he was white as a sheet and his eyes were red. He had been crying. 

Ned shut her door and collapsed against it, to the floor. “She threw herself from her balcony. Ashara. She’s dead.”

——————————

The Red Keep loomed above King’s Landing, a taunting reminder of what was lost and what would never be. The greatest dynasty that had ever been ended because of her foolishness. A castle built by Targaryens and for Targaryens and the Targaryen in her cabin would be denied it. Denied his birthright. She turned from the castle, the city and back to the cabin. 

They had docked moments before and Ned had sent a messenger to the castle to inform Robert of their arrival. 

Her time with her son was ending. Once she stepped off this boat, he was her bastard nephew. Her child with Rhaegar was dead, as far as anyone believed. Ned promised her he’d bury the child with the rest of her family, in the crypts of Winterfell. 

Aegon was sleeping in her arms, unaware of the pain she was about to put him through. Guilt flooded her. The ship was headed to Essos after this. Mayhaps she could stay aboard, go to Pentos and keep heading east. She and her son, against the world. 

But when she closed her eyes she saw Aegon’s grey eyes staring back at her, dead. She saw Rhaegar and Elia and her children and Ashara and her papa and Brandon. She owed it to them to be selfless, to be strong. So she would. 

Ned opened the cabin door and closed it behind him, quickly. “He sent some guards. They said he was relieved to hear you were on board.”

It was then that Aegon awoke. He blinked a few times and yawned. She had hoped to feed him from her breasts one last time, but it was not to be. Her son would go hungry until Ned found a wet nurse for him. More guilt and more shame filled in her. They were big enough to rival the Wall. 

Her breathing became erratic as the walls around closed in. Lyanna kissed her son one last time. She held him tight to her chest as the sobs came, furious and fast, and she buried her face against the top of his head. Tears fell softly, landing on his brown hair, crowning him in her misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Dany I in which our Mother of Dragons grows up and I spoil two plot twists in the chapter. The first is one that originally wasn’t in the story, but is now and I kinda love it. The second closes the chapter and has been with me since the start. I will see you then.


	4. DAENERYS I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s Dany I. This chapter covers a lot of time because there’s plenty of Dany’s story that’s similar to canon and I didn’t wanna go over it, again. 
> 
> I also didn’t want to post a 12k word monster again, lol. This is a more manageable 7100. 
> 
> There’s more to add, but we will discuss that at the end. I’m not overly thrilled with this chapter but I needed to get it out of the way. Enjoy.

She was a girl of six, sitting on the roof of her manse, gazing up at the stars. A cool breeze came in from the north, through the city of Braavos and its canals, filling her nose with its brackish scent and caressing her silver hair. The familiar feeling made her smile. Staring at the night sky was amongst her favorite things to do in the world. 

Daenerys Targaryen sat on a stone bench, clad in a comfortable woolen dress, her eyes on the stars. 

“There, my love,” her mother said, pointing to the sky, as she sat next to her, “right there. The Ice Dragon is shining bright tonight. You can even see its blue eye.”

Of all the constellations in the sky, the Ice Dragon was her favorite, an old friend and easily recognizable. But the blue eye had always sent a chill through her. In response, she snuggled closer to her mother, enjoying the familiar warmth and comfort of her embrace. 

“And there, that’s the Crone’s Lantern, shining the way for all to see. Including little girls who can’t seem to find their bed.”

Daenerys shifted from her mother’s side to her lap, wrapping her small arms around her mother’s waist. She felt a sense of dread for reasons she couldn’t quite explain. Safety had been all she had known, but it was of a locked up kind, Dany had never stepped out of the mansion she lived in with her mother and brother and old Ser Willem. They were being hunted, her mother explained. A bad man took their home and wanted them dead. 

“What’s wrong sweetling?” she asked as Dany felt her mother pull her in for a deep hug. 

Daenerys didn’t know. She just felt cold and sad. “I don’t know, mama, I’m just sad.”

“I’m here, Dany. Your mama won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Her mother picked her up off the bench and back to her room. Dany fell asleep to the sound of her mother’s voice, singing softly as she soothed her back. 

A week later, Ser Willem died and her life was thrown into chaos. 

——————————-

It dawned on her, when she was eleven, just how much her brother hated their mother. She could see it in the way his eyes would darken when someone would mention Rhaella Targaryen, how Viserys would flex his hands open and shut in her presence. 

It had been a chaotic five years since they were forced to flee Braavos. Ser Willem’s death had exiled them from their Braavosi manse. From there to Lys, Myr, Volantis and Qohor, always moving, trying to stay a step ahead of the knives Viserys swore were chasing them. 

Her mother had been with them at first. And then, less and less. Days away would turn into weeks and sometimes months. In her heart Daenerys knew what that meant for her mother. Always another man, someone who would pay for their clothes and food and education. But above the purpling bruises she tried to cover from them and behind her mother’s eyes Dany could see the painful truth of their situation. Of her mother’s awful life. 

“Mother is a whore,” Viserys stated,’ plainly, one evening when they were alone. They were in a manse in Qohor, belonging to a blacksmith, who had sought their mother’s favor. The room they were in was a library of sorts. Dany was reading a book about dragons, always her favorite subject, when her brother sat down next to her. 

“I hear them whispering about her in this house and in this city. ‘The Dragon Whore’ they call her. Men pay good money to ‘ride the dragon’. They say a few Lords from Westeros have taken a ride on our mother.” The confirmation of their mother’s plight filled Dany with a sense of shame and guilt so profound, it caused tears to form in her eyes. But not Viserys. 

His face was ablaze with anger and hatred. When he spotted the tears falling down her cheeks, her brother reached out and grabbed her hair, violently. In a fluid motion he kicked the chair out from under her while twisting her hair, painfully. 

“You cry for that whore, sister?” The slap came across her cheek hard and quick. More tears sprang forth, unbidden. “You are as weak as she is. You are no true dragon. You’re one of the sickly ones born at the end, stunted and twisted.”

She wanted to push back against him, smack him, cause him pain, but she didn’t. She just cried until he left and then she cried some more. 

Her mother returned a week later and Dany was six again, crawling in her bed at night, holding her tightly, wishing her mother’s soothing murmuring were a spell to keep the world away. 

———————————

“Sweet Dany, I have gotten you a name day present,” Viserys said while they were eating dinner. Illyrio’s manse in Pentos was massive, easily the largest place they’d ever lived in. She, her brother and mother had lived their for almost four years. 

The fat magister had taken an interest in them and their mother. He had fallen in Iove with Rhaella Targaryen, he claimed, and for a time they lived as a family, with a kind of peace. But it soon became clear to Dany that Magister Mopatis was interested only in how they benefited him. 

A few years later, their mother had moved part time to Volantis, Illyrio claiming she was overseeing an investment of his in that ancient city. Daenerys has been used to her mother’s constant disappearances, but this was something entirely different. It had been over a year since she had last seen her mother. The only proof Dany had that she still lived were her letters. 

But words couldn’t ease her loneliness or protect her from Viserys. 

“You are to be one and seven in a few days,” her brother continued, standing with a goblet in his hands. “My gift to you is simple. The Iron Throne. For me.”

Daenerys was confused, but she had learned by way of many bruises not to question her brother, especially when he was in his cups. She merely nodded. 

“What your dear brother is saying, my sweet Daenerys, is that he’s as close to the Throne as he’s ever been. All he needs from you is some help. Will you help your brother, my precious girl?”

Illyrio’s voice was overly saccharine and sweet. Daenerys had heard it enough to detect the lies behind them. He cared not for her and she cared not for him. She couldn’t, however, ignore the increasing dread she felt at the situation she found herself in. She only had one response, though. 

“Of course, Magister,” she responded, her voice as smooth as she could make it, her face as much a mask as her muscles would allow, “anything to help my beloved brother.”

Viserys snorted at her response. “See, Illyrio, she has some fire in her. Perhaps her marriage to the Dothraki warlord won’t be as tragic as we think.”

The mask she was wearing dropped like a stone in a pool of water. Her breaths were short and frantic, her mind spinning like a top. 

“Marriage? To a Dothraki?” The meek inquiry was the only response she could muster. 

Viserys smiled deeply at her pain. 

“Sweet girl, I have always considered you like a daughter,” Illyrio said, his fat hand grasping at hers. “And while I can see your fear, push it from your mind. Khal Drogo is the leader of a massive khalasar, 40,000 men strong. You would be his queen.”

Daenerys tried to absorb his words, to understand them, but they just washed over her. 

“But I don’t want to marry him. Did my mother give Viserys permission..”

“I don’t take orders from a whore!” Viserys screamed as he strode towards her. In a few steps he was on top of her, a ringed finger in her face. His purple eyes were blazing. “You will marry this stinking savage and get me his army. The Throne will be mine and I will destroy the Usurper and his Wolf Bitch whore Queen and their pups.”

Her brother was right. She married Khal Drogo a fortnight later, five days past her nameday, in a grand wedding outside Pentos. It was the largest feast Dany had ever seen and it was all for her. Yet she wanted none of it. Illyrio feted her with gifts, three slaves to be her handmaidens, the sword of a Westerosi Knight named Ser Jorah Mormont and most importantly, three dragons eggs. 

Her new husband was tall and powerfully built. His skin was the color of beaten copper and his hair was long and thick tied behind him in braids. Drogo said nothing to her, he did not speak the Common Tongue, he merely grunted and laughed at the chaos in front of them. 

She was petrified as she sat there, high on the dais, everyone including Viserys below her. Food and drink were spread out yet she wanted none of them. Her hands shook as she sipped her wine, wanting nothing more than to leave, to find her mother and go back to Braavos and watch the stars. 

Daenerys Targaryen stayed, though, even when she and Drogo rode off alone, to an empty field, where her husband took his rights and left her with naught but tears. 

———————————

The eggs were her only comfort at first. Those long rides, as the blisters came and popped and bled, drained her. Even lonelier, the nights, where her husband would come and mount her like a dog mounted a bitch. She saved her tears for herself, crying only when alone in the night, after Drogo has spilled in her and stumbled off elsewhere. Dany would clutch those warm eggs against her as she lied there, wishing for the gift of death. 

But death never came, and after some time life did. A child grew in her belly as they advanced towards Vaes Dothrak. “A son,” Drogo had declared one night. Their marriage had become kinder with the pregnancy revelation. Dany no longer shied from his contact and as she learned his language, he actually started listening to her counsel on certain matters. She had thought all kings were like Viserys, cruel and bitter. Drogo could be cruel and violent, but never towards Dany. 

The khalasar arrived at Vaes Dothrak six moons after it had set out from Pentos and Dany was presented to the Dosh Khaleen upon their arrival. She had consumed a warm horse heart, blood and gore dripping down her chin, but she had swallowed it whole. When the cheers had subsided, the crones declared her child ‘The Stallion Who Mounts The World.” 

As Drogo held her high, she announced to all “Rhaego shall be his name! Rhaego. Son of Drogo, Blood of the Dragon!”

When the crowd dispersed the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen, Daenerys has found a familiar face staring at her, full of emotion and tears. Her mother. 

———————————-

Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen looked much older than when Daenerys had seen her last, close to two years ago. There were age lines on her face, many around her purple eyes and her mouth, which was tight and lean. Her hair, which had seemed to glow when Dany was a child, now looked faded and washed. An impenetrable aura of sadness graced every feature on her pretty face. 

But still, Daenerys felt a peace she hadn’t felt in years. When her mother hugged her, she was 6 again, safe in her arms. 

That night she insisted on a meal with her daughter and son, which Dany happily obliged. For a few fleeting hours before the meal, she thought the three of them could be a family, that her mother would gentle her brother’s rage as she had when they were children. The dinner pushed that notion from her mind, entirely.

It was a delicious meal, roasted goat with potatoes, covered in a honey sauce. Pregnancy had made Dany into a voracious eater and she finished off two plates. Her greedy little child would be well tended to tonight. But her brother wouldn’t. He picked at his plate before pushing it aside, with disgust. 

“It’s one thing to have filthy mongrels at our table, sister,” he said with such disdain that it stopped Dany’s movements dead in their tracks, “but now we are to eat with common whores, as well?” 

The only sound that followed was of Dany’s horrified gasp. Her mother just stared at Viserys coldly, her purple eyes harsh in the flickering candle light, as she nibbled on a piece of rib meat. When she was done, she placed the bone on her plate and addressed her son. 

“Do not, my son, think that you can make me cower with mere words. And do not, for one moment, think that what you have done in my absence, your cruel treatment of your sister, will ever be forgiven or forgot. It shall not.”

For a brief moment, the pair of them stared at each other, and Daenerys was certain that sparks, like that of a blacksmith hammering molten metal, were flying from their eye harshness of their gaze. Then Viserys leaned his head back and laughed. 

“What is to be forgotten mother? Was it that I finally made an attempt to get back my throne? That someone in this family did something other than whore themselves out to get back what was taken from us?”

“I whored out myself, yes, to protect the people I love. You whored out your sister to get the power you so desperately want but shall never have.”

“That is where you’re wrong, mother. I shall have it. I will sit the Iron Throne and I, I shall not forget. And then you will beg before me like a dog and I, in my mercy shall merely parade you naked through the streets. Like the whore you are.”

He took his half-filled goblet of wine and forcefully threw it at their mother’s head, hitting her on the cheek, blood and wine spilling from the spot of impact. 

Suddenly, Daenerys found herself on her feet, a bronze candlestick in her hand. Before she or Viserys could fully react, the candlestick was swung and hit Viserys in the temple, hard, sending him flying off his chair and onto the packed earth floor. 

Her other hand reached out towards the table and found purchase with a sharp knife. In a heartbeat Daenerys was on top of her brother, nostrils flared and eyes wide, with a blade at his throat. 

Blood dripped from where she had clubbed him and spread across his face. Blinkingly, he turned his head slowly to her fury etched on his face. 

“Qoy qoyi,” she yelled, never breaking eye contact with her brother. She hated him then, Daenerys realized. Hated his cruelty and weakness. Above all she hated that weakness reflected in her. _No more,_ she swore herself. 

Rakharo and Jhogo came pouring in, arakhs drawn and yelled when they saw Dany with a knife to her brother’s throat. Jhogo lifted Dany easily, as if she were nothing more than a child, and Rakharo’s arakh replaced Dany’s knife against Viserys’ throat. 

The first thing she did when her bloodrider placed her down on the floor was to go to her mother. Rhaella Targaryen looked both shocked and awed as the blood and wine covered half her face. Dany grabbed a cloth and helped her mother clean her cheek and jaw. 

“What is to be done with this rat?” Rakharo asked in his guttural language. “Let me take a hand, Khaleesi.”

She had known his punishment then. “No, take his horse, take all his possessions,” she responded in Dothraki, fully aware her brother spoke none of it. “But drag him back to his tent and make sure he doesn’t leave it for tonight.”

Dany watched as her brother was dragged from the tent kicking and screaming, before turning back to her mother. 

———————————-

After a few days, Drogo had let her brother ride in a cart. Neither Dany nor her mother had gone to him since that night. Irri had told her his mood grew fouler by the hour. Still, Daenerys would not visit him. 

_Let him rot,_ she thought. 

Instead she had spent time with her mother. Day and night she found herself attached to Rhaella Targaryen’s hip, like she was as a child, ten years ago. They ate their meals together, talked about what she had heard in her wandering of the Free Cities. The only time they were separated was when Drogo came to her tent every night, looking to mount her. 

The first time she saw Khal Drogo, Daenerys saw pure hatred radiate off her mother. Drogo noticed it, too. For a moment, she thought her mother and husband would clash, but she stepped between them and kissed Drogo, which her mother took a sign to leave. 

That was a few nights ago. Her mother’s objections to Drogo were swallowed. Neither woman could do anything about him or their marriage. Now Dany had watched her husband leave after taking her, parting with a hand to her belly as a gesture to his child, as his seed dripped down her thighs. 

The flap to her tent opened almost as soon as it was closed and her mother walked in to Daenerys washing her groin and legs with a damp cloth. Rhaella sighed as she helped Dany with her ministrations. 

“Is he gentle?” she asked, her gaze looking away from Dany. 

“Gentler than he was before. At first he was...rough.”

Her mother choked back a sob, tears blooming behind her eyes. She took Dany’s face in her hands. 

“My words are hollow, but I am so sorry. I wanted better than this for you. Better than what I suffered through. And I failed.”

Dany found herself shaking her head, reflexively. It wasn’t her mother’s fault. It was her brother’s. Her father’s. 

The pair had cried some after that, Rhaella holding Dany as they sobbed. When they separated many things crossed Dany’s mind, but in the end she had only one thought that was nagging at her, something in the back of her mind she could not dismiss. 

“I don’t...Drogo. I don’t love him, mother. He’s not unkind anymore, but I can not forget how this marriage started.”

Her hands found her belly and she found her voice small, “But the babe. Will I...can I love it? Is it possible? Am I doomed to hate my child if I don’t love its father. If the coupling was...rough and unwanted?”

There was more to her feelings than just the babe in her belly. Dany had heard the whispers from those around her about what her mother endured from her father. Her mother sensed it too, as she grabbed Dany’s hand and looked her dead in her eyes, which were unblinking. 

“Yes. Yes my love. You will love this child so much it will frighten you. You would do anything to spare them a moment of grief. I know, trust me, my love, I know.”

Daenerys nodded mindlessly at that. Many other questions sped through her head, but she was tired. She closed her eyes and sleep claimed her. 

 

——————————

In her dreams, she saw the tree. White and tall with blood red leaves and a face carved into it. One eye was gouged out, the white bark covering it, while the other was weeping red blood. “Mother of dragons,” the mouth of the tree moved. “Slayer of lies. Breaker of chains. Wake the stone dragons. It is time.”

The mouth of the tree opened and a black bird flew out of its mouth, flames spewed from the mouth, chasing the bird and engulfing her. 

She woke with a start, her head pounding, mouth dry and surrounded by heat. There was a pain coursing through her body, but it was sharpest around her groin, which felt like she had been stabbed. 

A cool cloth was pressed to her head and Dany took in her surroundings. The tent was stuffy and oppressively hot and a low light from sunset filtered through the flaps. It was her and Irri, who was wiping her forehead and took note of her open eyes.

“Khaleesi,” she began, softly, “what do you remember?”

She recalled much. The attempt by the wine seller on her life. How that had pushed Drogo to seek the Iron Throne. Viserys’ glee at the sight. “If I knew this would have been his reaction, I’d have sent the assassin myself.” The peaceful Lhazareen and how Drogo has enslaved them. The wound he took when Dany claimed all the women and children. Mirri Maz Duur and her promise to save Drogo for Viserys. The poisonous smile that bloomed on his face when he looked at her. And then, suddenly, the price. 

Her hands found her belly. It was flatter than before and she knew, instantly, what that meant. 

“My son. Where is Rhaego?” she asked even as she knew the answer. 

“Khaleesi, he is dead,” Irri said, softly. “The maegi said he never lived.”

A moan, guttural and raw, escaped her. Her pain was mixed with sadness, each so profound that she could scarce breathe. She was a failure, as a mother and a person. _What kind of mother can’t protect their child?_ Great gasping sobs took hold of her until sleep claimed her again. As she closed her eyes, Dany had wished it was the permanent kind. 

But she awoke the next afternoon. Her handmaidens helped her to her feet. They were poised on the edge of the Red Waste so the heat outside the tent was just as stifling as inside. But the air was fresher. 

All around her were the signs of chaos. Drogo’s great khalasar, tens of thousands strong, had splintered. There were maybe a hundred people left. Fires smoldered and debris littered, as far as the eye could see. See Jorah was the first to get to her. “Thank the gods,” he muttered as he lifted her arm and supported her weight. 

Daenerys heard him before she spotted him. Screams and curses echoed across the campsite and the sound of a whip hitting flesh. Then she passed her tent and saw him. 

Viserys, a whip in hand and two naked, older women each tied to a post, hands bound and naked. The first one wasn’t moving. Her back was a ruin of gore and blood. If Mirri Maz Duur wasn’t dead, she was near it. If she had the strength, Dany would have spat on her. For Rhaego. 

The other woman was getting the focus of Viserys’ rage. Her back was in much better shape than the maegi’s, but blood still flowed freely down her back, past her ass cheeks and down her legs. She was quietly moaning as her silver haired head rested against the post. 

“Mother!” Dany yelled and saw her brother stop and turn towards her, whip in hand. Viserys turned to her, his face pale and furious, damp with sweat.

“Dany? I thought you were dead. Mayhaps you’re stronger than you appear. Fear not, sweet sister, I will see to you, soon.”

“No. You won’t hurt anyone else here.” With an utterance in Dothraki, her blood riders pounced, seizing her brother, roughly. Ser Jorah passed her to Irri, who steadied her, as he went to unbind her mother. 

“I am your brother! Your king!” Viserys’ voice was pitched high and tight. She could hear the fear in it. 

“You are not my kin. You are not my king.” With a weak wave, she dismissed him, finally. 

His screams were music to her ears as the Dothraki beat him. This time it was Viserys III, King of the Andals and Rhoynar and First Men, who was lashed to a post, barely conscious, looking like a pale, pathetic worm.

She saw to Drogo herself. Her husband was barely living. A ghost in human form. Daenerys cried as she held the pillow over his face. He wasn’t always kind, but he protected her, there may have even been the bloomings of love. Now, however, he was a corpse. Like their son. 

Rhaego. The thought of him filled her with grief and guilt. Her own brother sought to keep her husband alive so he could aide in his conquest. And he used her son as the sacrifice. A fool’s notion, but that was Viserys. She would have his head now, but Dany had one more use for him. 

The pyre was setup the next night, after Dany and her mother had recovered somewhat. Rhaella could hardly stand, but Ser Jorah held her weight. Aggo placed Rhaego and Drogo together on the platform. Irri had said her babe was monstrous, leather winged and scaled, thanks to the maegi’s black magic. He was still her son. She would light his pyre. 

Her dragon eggs were then placed around her husband and child’s bodies. Magister Illyrio had told her the eggs were old and dead. Dany was determined to find out. 

- _“Wake the stone dragons,”_ the voice whispered. 

The pyre went up quickly as she held the torch to it. Her husband and son, united in the Night Lands, riding free, according to the Dothraki. Dany hoped it was true. Soon the flames had spread beyond Drogo’s plinth, burning the body of Mirri Maz Duur, as well. 

She went to her mother. Pain marked every part of her face. Sweat and dirt and tears and blood spotted her face. Dany took that face in her hands and kissed her brow. When she met her eyes again, Daenerys tried to fill her eyes with as much love as she could. To soften the blow of what was to come. 

“Tie my brother to the flames,” she declared, still staring at her mother. If Rhaella objected, if she wanted to stop this, Dany would let her. Her mother closed her eyes and cried as Dany moved to hold her. 

But Rhaella Targaryen never objected. 

“I’m the King of the Seven Kingdoms,” Viserys screamed. “I demand you free me.” No one moved to help him. The Dothraki were her people, not his. She had put the time in the learn their ways, speak their language. 

Dany left her mother’s side and addressed her people, what was left of them. “I see slaves here,” she started with as much force as she could muster, “but you are slaves no more. I free you. Those who want to leave, can. None will stop you. Take what you can and live a free life. Those who stay with me, know that you will always be free and that those who harm you will die, screaming. Like this one.”

She pointed at the pyre and her brother. 

“Dany, please!” Her brother yelled. “Mother, I’m sorry!” He pleaded. 

They fell on deaf ears. As the pyre was lit, the flames grew closer and closer to the post Viserys was tied to. He fought against his chains, pissed his breeches, screamed and moaned as the flames licked and kissed and finally consumed him. Then he gave a great shuddering roar, before dying. 

Dany watched it all, perched on the edge of the flames. They called to her, the twirling and twisting flames. So Daenerys Stormborn answered them and stepped into the fires, the screams of those around her muffled by a loud crack, then a second, followed by a third. Something grabbed her leg then, with tiny claws. And she knew, _knew_ that she had done it. 

They found her that morning. The black of night was giving way to dawn when the sky exploded on the horizon, and a comet bright and red blazed fiercely. The bright light cast the world in its red glow, which was greeted in the first time in over a century by the sound of dragons. 

———————————-

The bleeding star had led them through the Red Waste. For the better part of three moons it shined, Daenerys and her scant khalasar following it. It seemed a fool’s notion, especially as people started dying. But still, they trudged on day after blistering hot day, night after cold night until they found it, hazy on the horizon. A city, ancient and abandoned. 

Irri had told her that the Dothraki still alive had started calling the place _Vaes Tolorro_ which meant “City of Bones” in the Horse Lord’s language. Daenerys felt the name apt. The Red Waste had stripped all color from the structures in the city; walls, buildings, wells, all bleached white over time. 

What the Red Waste hadn’t taken, it seemed the ancient Dothraki did. The city showed signs of having been looted. All they had been left were walls and roofs. But even those had started to crumble as nature began to reclaim the city. And in that, their salvation. 

They had found numerous trees, figs and peaches and plums abounded. There were birds, lots of them, pigeons and larks, who had survived and flourished on the fruits. Most importantly, though, were the wells, full of cool and fresh water. 

There had been 77 of them that set out into the waste. 52 remained to her, now, including her mother. Ser Jorah and her handmaidens had made it alive, although Jhiqui barely at that. Daenerys had taken to using the last of her water to keep her friend from succumbing to the fever that had run rampant in her. 

But they had water now. Irri and Doreah had drawn a bath and the three of them had eased Jhiqui into it, in an attempt to cool her. It had worked and her fever broke that night, to Daenerys’ relief. She spent the rest of that first night with her mother, who had never complained in the desert, but was clearly weakened by the trek. The presence of the three dragons, especially Viserion who had grown close to her mother, seemed to give her strength. 

_She is blood of the dragon, too,_ Daenerys reminded herself as she laid next to her mother. _And stronger than she looks._

That morning, after the first full night of sleep she had gotten in weeks, Daenerys and her mother had broken their fast on figs and peaches and some boiled pigeon eggs. Her mother looked much better following the meal. She and Dany bathed later that day in a pool, the water warmed by the hot sun, and luxuriated until their skin had pruned. 

The smile that her mother had given her as they sat in their robes, frayed as they were, eased any fears she had regarding her mother’s health. That evening Rhaella had taken to ordering people around, especially Ser Jorah, and making Vaes Tolorro a bit more like a home. 

When night had come, Daenerys found herself on the roof of the largest manse in the small city. Some lord or queen or magister once lived in it. Now the Mother of Dragons sat on the stone roof, staring up at the sky like she had countless times before, tracking the stars. 

“It’s beautiful up here,” her mother said, joining her in counting the stars. “Ser Jorah says there’s enough food to last us months, if not years. He thinks we should stay here for a time. Recover our... strength.”

The way she paused on that last word caused Dany to rip her gaze from the sky and towards her mother, who had tears in her eyes. Instinctively, Dany opened her arms wide and her mother instantly closed the distance and fell into her. 

Dany slowly stroked her back as she cried, great heaving sobs. She found it strange how natural this felt when for the entirety of her life it had been the opposite; her mother holding her as Dany cried. For how long the sat there on that roof, she couldn’t say. But when her mother had cried herself dry, she pushed off of Dany and leaned against the short wall that lined the roof. 

“I’m sorry, sweeting,” she said, softly. “He was my son. The last son I had left. I know what he was. And I don’t hate you for what you did. I just…”

She understood then, because she had felt the same. “You mourn for what he was.” Her mother glanced at her and nodded sadly. “As do I, mother. I mourn the Viserys that used to let me in his bed and would tell me stories. Not the monster he became.”

“There was too much of his father in him. It was clear even before the Rebellion. He wasn’t Rhaegar. Wasn’t you.”

At her mother’s words, Daenerys reached out and grabbed her hand. The pair of them, mothers mourning their murdered sons, sat there in silence, the moon casting its pale glow over them. 

——————————

Dany was awoken by the sound of chirping. The dragons were in their wooden cages, kept in there during the night for their own safety, and one of them was loudly crying while flapping its small wings. 

Dawn was close, but there was enough moonlight reflecting off the white walls in her room to see. For a moment, Dany was tempted to roll over, turn her back to her dragons and let sleep claim her again. But then one of them chirped again and she threw the thin sheet off her and walked towards her children.

As she got closer to the corner of the room where they were kept, she could see it was Rhaegal. The green and bronze dragon was in a state and Dany hurriedly opened its cage. 

The dragon jumped on her the moment it was free and climbed up to her shoulder, screaming in her ear. 

“Sssh, sweetling,” she said, stroking Rhaegal’s head with as much patience as she could muster at the crack of dawn. But he wouldn’t be calmed by her presence, it only seemed to make him more agitated and he tried to pull her towards the door. 

As she exited her house and stepped out into the city, Rhaegal stopped his crying, spread his wings and took to the sky, leaving Dany stunned, staring at the small dragon as it wobbled in the air. Rhaegal was headed toward the city’s walls and Dany followed. His cries returned as he made his way to the walls, Dany following closely. Behind her was a line of stragglers trailing as her dragon woke what seemed to be the entire city. 

It was the queerest parade she had ever seen. A small group of ragged stragglers following wobbling, tiny dragon, its small wings flapping furiously. Rhaegal would stop, frequently, landing on various surfaces; broken walls and large stones and once, even the head of Aggo. There was something endearing about the stubborn desire of the green dragon to try and fly. 

Rhaegal landed on the walls, spread his wings and screamed, loudly into the desert. When they made the walls, she climbed a broken staircase, carefully stepping over broken stone, coming to a parapet next to the main gate and crouched next to the tiny dragon. 

The sun was rising in front of them, a red slash against a black sky. Dunes surrounded them, sand blowing from one to the other in the wind. The closest one was about fifty yards away, small compared to its siblings. 

It was there that in the dull light of dawn Daenerys could see something moving. An animal. It looked as large as a pony, but it wasn’t. Not with that tail. Was it a dog? Or a lion of some kind? 

“A wolf, Khaleesi,” Doreah said next to her. 

“A wolf,” she repeated, confused. “In the desert?”

Any further objections were swallowed by Rhaegal, who lifted his head to the sky and squawked, loudly. The wolf answered the call by lifting his head and howling, a red sun shining behind it, but no sound was made. Then it was gone, back down the dune and away from the city. 

Her green and bronze dragon, perched on the edge of a wall a dozen feet high, spread its wings and jumped, gliding towards where the wolf was, before it, too, vanished behind the dune. 

For a moment, they all stood there stunned on the walls, unsure of what they had seen. Then the wolf returned to the top of the hill. This time, though, it was dragging something, Rhaegal sat on it, flapping and yelping excitedly. The beast wasn’t dragging a thing, Dany quickly realized. It was dragging someone. 

A man. 

She gasped and turned, her feet taking control. They led her to the open gates, only a stone's throw away, where she and her bloodriders made for the man. 

It was Ser Jorah who reached her first, pulling her back towards him, shielding her as her bloodriders and freemen approached the wolf, blades drawn. 

“Careful, Princess.” Her old bear whispered. 

But Dany wouldn’t listen and twisted from his grasp. Rhaegal had trusted this man, this beast. So she would, too. The wolf had its haunches raised at the sight of the blades, teeth bared in a silent growl. 

Its coat was all white, filthy from the dirt of a long trek. As she got closer, Dany noticed the eyes, blood red and seemingly wise, fixed on her. An albino. A single command had her men lowering their weapons, slowly, and the wolf relaxed. 

A few more steps and she was in front of the beast, a tremulous hand extended. The wolf, which was bigger than the hrakkar Drogo had killed and made a gift to her from its pelt, sniffed her palm, its scratchy nose tickling her hand. After a beat, it licked her fingers before moving away from the body, allowing her access. When the wolf moved, Rhaegal moved with it, the pair yapping and snapping at each other, playfully. 

She turned her attention away from that incredible sight to the man. He was prone in the sand, his clothes nothing more than tatters. On his back was a sword, long and in a thick leather scabbard, the pommel and hilt done up with dragons. In the mouth of the dragon on the pommel was a giant ruby, shining brightly. Dany extended her hand towards the sword, and the man it was strapped to, before she felt someone grab her arm back, away from both. 

Ser Jorah pulled her into him, again and she twisted from his grasp this time with even more force. She felt a rush of anger at the man who for the second time, had stopped her and pushed him aside. Sensing her emotions, his hands raised in apology, he calmly stepped around her and towards the young man. When he spotted the sword, he gasped, loudly. 

“Is that…” he asked no one in particular. 

Rakharo was at the man’s side. “Help him,” she commanded him in Dothraki. Her bloodriders flipped the man onto his back. Sand covered his face and Dany knelt across from Rakharo to brush it off. 

He was of an age with her, his long face curtained by thick brown hair. There was a scar that ran from his forehead to his cheek, curving around his brow. Tall and lean yet there was something very familiar about him. And very comely. 

She heard footsteps coming from behind her and the chirping of the other two dragons. Her mother was coming, Aegys and Viserion on her shoulders, singing loudly. Dany could see her concern from where she was crouching. 

Her attention was drawn back to the man when he started muttering, softly at first, the words unrecognizable. “What tongue is that, Ser Jorah?”

His answer was swallowed when the man sat up, suddenly and opened his eyes — they were a grey so dark they almost looked black— and grabbed Dany’s forearm. It was then she noticed a ring on his hand. The red dragon of House Targaryen on a black field, but quartered. Her eyes met his, but those grey ones were unfocused and pained. 

“The dragon must have three heads,” he said loudly and clearly, before falling back to the sand, his eyes closing as he fell. Dany blinked confusingly at the spot on her arm where he grabbed her, before Ser Jorah spoke up. “Princess, I know this boy. This man. He is the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark. Jon Snow.”

Eddard Stark? The name bounced through her head. ‘Usurper’s dog,’ a voice echoed in her mind, sounding like Viserys’. 

It was then that her mother knelt next to this Jon Snow, gasping upon seeing the ring on his finger. 

“Your graces, allow me to kill him”, Ser Jorah declared as he unsheathed his sword. “Let me avenge your slaughtered family.”

Before he could act, though, the wolf, with Rhaegal on its head, sped into view. The white wolf pounced on Ser Jorah, before he could raise his sword in defense and knocked him on his back. Rhaegal jumped off the wolf’s head, the pair growling at the knight. While her dragons hiss was loud, the wolf was silent. 

Fear and panic crossed Ser Jorah’s face and it was increased when the other two dragons jumped off her mother, who was carefully tending to Jon Snow with shaking hands, and plopped on the old bear’s chest, hissing loudly. 

“Enough. No one is harming this man,” she said with as much force as she could muster in her shocked state. 

But it worked. Her dragons obeyed her command. The three of them leapt off of Ser Jorah and onto the sand next to him. The wolf, however stayed pressed on top of Jorah, it’s hackles raised and teeth bared. As before, Dany knew instinctively that the wolf would never harm her, so she leaned over and gently pressed the wolf’s hind, muttering “it’s okay.” Between that and a loud chirp from Rhaegal, the albino wolf relaxed and moved away from the old bear. 

Ser Jorah was not pleased, and angrily got to his feet, wiping sand off of him with disdain. When some fell on to Jon Snow, her mother turned and looked at Ser Jorah with as much disgust as Dany had ever seen her send his way, before wiping it off of the young man. He was certainly stunned as he muttered, “I don’t understand. He’s just Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“No,” her mother said, as she shakily stood to her feet, “He’s not.”

Then she fainted and fell to the sand next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Rhaella is alive! It wasn’t something I had planned on initially, but I couldn’t let go of the idea once it came to me. If Jon can have a mother, so can Dany. Neither had it easy, though, as you can see. 
> 
> And the ending. Jon is in the Red Waste? How? Why? Ghost? The ring? What sword was that? 
> 
> All legit questions, of which I will answer none. Lol. This is the last Dany chapter for a little bit. I’m gonna go fill in with a couple of Jon and Lyanna chapters just how we get Jon to the Red Waste. 
> 
> I am toying with making Dany II happen before Jon gets to the Red Waste in the present, but I don’t know if I wanna juggle two timelines. 
> 
> Up next for sure is Jon II in which a 12 year old Jon broods and mopes and saves a Prince from doom.


	5. JON II (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon broods some more and saves a Prince and, well, read it first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was much harder than it should of been and way longer than I expected. Season 8 fucking sucked ass and it took the wind out of my sails for this story. I think I've got it back now and the updates won't be three while months apart. 
> 
> So I apologize for the delay. This is, again, a two part Jon chapter because I had to split it up. The next one will continue Jon at age 12 and pick up where this left off. I could have written a 12k word chapter again but I wanted to give you guys *something* because I've been shit at this. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy. There's still not enough of the political situation in here for my liking but that's what the next chapter is for, because when someone tries to assassinate the Crown Prince, politics comes barging in like the Kool-Aid man.

“Yield,” he said as he held the wooden sword to the boy’s neck. The Prince huffed and nodded and grabbed Jon’s outstretched hand. Orys Baratheon was lifted to his feet, a wry smile on his face as he dusted himself off. 

“Almost had you that time, Snow.” Jon could hear the slightest hint of mirth in his cousin’s voice. 

“Maybe next time,” Jon responded as he patted Orys on his shoulder. 

“Well done, Jon,” Ser Barristan said staring at him with a queer look on his face. The old Kingsguard had become a fixture at Winterfell with Crown Prince Orys’ fostering. The knight had personally taken up the Prince’s lessons and thus, Robb’s, Theon’s and Jon’s as well. “As per usual. And you too, my Prince. You didn’t fall for Jon’s feint like before.”

It always struck Jon as unusual that a knight of such renowned as Ser Barristan the Bold would take such an interest in his swordsmanship, but the old man never said anything about it. Bastard or not, Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with his true born family and thanks to the Bold, knocked them all on their arses. 

“I told you that Jon would knock some sense into him, Ser Barristan,” came a familiar voice. The Queen had entered the courtyard, astride a silver mare and pulled up next to the training pit, alone. Jon had seen this enough to know that a small party would come clambering in soon, having been left in the dust by Queen Lyanna. 

As she dismounted, gracefully, the courtyard went to one knee, Jon included. The only one left standing was Prince Orys, as the royal children never knelt to their parents. Queen Lyanna motioned the courtyard to rise. “Mother,” Orys exclaimed as he greeted her with a hug. The Queen broke the hug after a moment and took her son’s face in her hands. 

Jon looked away at this display of motherly affection. He had never known his own mother, but seeing the Lady Stark or Queen be affectionate towards their children always made him feel sad and uncomfortable. The pair broke apart and the Queen made her way to Robb, hugging and kissing him, quickly, before moving towards Jon. 

She glanced around the courtyard, Jon was sure to make sure no one was looking, before stepping into him and engulfing him with a big hug. After a moment she released him and took his face in her hands, looking him over. Her grey eyes, so like Jon’s and his father’s, scanned his face for what seemed like an eternity. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, she left him with a kiss to the forehead. 

The Queen didn’t release him, though, instead she wrapped Jon around his shoulder with one arm before doing the same with Robb on the other. Orys gave his mother a strange look. “Don’t be offended, sweetling,” she said as the trio moved past him towards the hall, “but you’ve horse shit on your arse.”

Orys moved his hand to his ass and came back with a palm full of brown slop. With a sniff he chuckled and said, “it’s only mud, mother.”

The laughter of all four carried them into the Great Hall. They reached a long table and all sat down, the Queen still wedged between Jon and Robb, Orys sitting down opposite her. 

“So tell me,” she began, conspiratorially, “what trouble did you three get in during the moon I was gone?” Robb and Orys avoided her inquiring eyes. Jon, however, couldn’t when she turned to him. “It’s been worse, your Grace,” he said with a slight smirk. 

“Jon doesn’t get in trouble, Aunt Lyanna,” Robb spoke up. “Orys and I, though…”

A servant placed a platter with bread and cheese in front of them. Jon reached out for both, quickly, grabbing the best looking loaf and piece of cheese before Robb or Orys, who hissed at losing. Jon couldn’t contain the smug look of victory as he shoved both in his mouth. 

The Queen laughed at their antics. Jon swallowed his food and washed it down with a cup of watered wine, conveniently placed in front of him by a servant.

“We didn’t get in too much trouble, mother,” Orys said, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “Besides, I much prefer it here than the Capitol. My cousins here are much better company than down there.”

Queen Lyanna chuckled at that. Orys had spent many a night telling them stories of his Uncle Stannis and Aunt Cersei and their three children. Joffrey in particular seemed a nasty and brutal type. Jon wasn’t shocked that Orys preferred his Stark relatives to his Baratheon ones.

“How was Barrowton, you Grace,” he asked his aunt, changing the subject.

“Lady Dustin was as courteous as ever, love,” she said, turning to face him.

“That bad, then, sister?” Jon’s father sat down at the table next to Orys, a tight smile on his face. Lord Eddard gave his nephew a poke in the ribs with a finger. “You’ve horse shit on your arse, son.”

The table started laughing all over again. “It’s mud, Uncle Ned. Very well, I guess I shall go and change my pants.”

Orys stood from the table and took a step away. “Nothing too fancy, lad,” his father cut in, “you and your cousin are spending the afternoon helping Mikken in the forge. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten your pushinments.”

WIth a shy smile and a chuckle, Orys made his way from the Great Hall.

“Boys,” Queen Lyanna said with a mocking derision. “Why do we have so many boys?”

“It’s not like the girls are any better,” Robb said, glumly, between bites of his bread.

“Truly, though, Lya, how was Barbrey?” his father asked with a tight look. Jon recognized it easily. A mix of guilt and shame and nervousness. Eddard Stark often gave his bastard son that look.

“She’s the same as ever, Ned. A woman who loves nothing more than nursing her grievances. No matter how legitimate they are.”

The Queen’s face was also a tight mask. Unlike her brother, Jon was usually unable to read her face. Every so often, the mask would slip, but those instances were truly rare.

“What grudge could Lady Dustin have against House Stark?” Jon asked.

His father and aunt shared a look of unease. “An old one, Jon,” his father started. “When I rode south to free your aunt from her captivity I rode with half a dozen other men...”

“The story about the Tower of Joy,” Robb interrupted. “We know about that. Lady Barbrey’s husband, Lord Willam and how _Prince Rhaegar’s_ Kingsguard slew him.” Robb added venom upon saying the name Rhaegar. Jon loved him for it. “Prince Rhaegar’s gaolers, you mean,” Jon added for effect. “Cowards, the lot of them. Especially the Prince.” The story of what Rhaegar Targaryen had done to Lyanna Stark was known across the realm. The North hated him and the Targaryens for it. Almost as much as they hated the Mad King. 

The Queen moved slowly away from Jon and his brother, a pained look on her face. “That’s enough, boys,” their father said with true anger in his voice. “The Queen and I will retire to my solar since our children are incapable of acting anything other than spoiled babies.”

He and Robb watched with confusion as Lord Eddard and Queen Lyanna got up and left the hall, his father wrapping an arm around the Queen as she leaned into her big brother for support. Jon turned to his brother and saw that Robb was as vexed as he was.

“What do you reckon that was about?” Jon asked.

Robb shrugged it off. In an instant it seemed his brother had moved onto other things in his mind. Jon couldn’t, however. Why had his father reacted so angrily? Was it the mention of Rhaegar? They had talked of him and the Tower of Joy before, Lord Eddard telling them how he would be dead were it not for Lord Howland Reed. But not in the Queen’s presence. That was probably it, their insensitivity as to the fact that the woman Rhaegar abducted and raped was sitting right next to them, while they blathered on like fools.

“Oi, I’m talking to you, Jon!”

Robb broke his reverie. His brother had his arms to his sides, held wide in disbelief. Crumbs fell down his chin and onto his chest, making him look ridiculous. Jon couldn’t help laughing at him. 

“Orys and I are gonna plan a way to get Sansa, Jeyne and Beth tonight. Wanna join?”

It was hard to put aside the deep thoughts he was struggling with and deal with Robb’s foolishness. 

“That’s not a smart thing for me to do, you know that.”

Robb snorted. “Why, because you think that your last name being Snow makes you less than us? That’s not true. The Queen loves you more than anyone here, Jon. Certainly more than me. Even mother sees it.”

The thought made him blush. Robb was certainly wrong. But the Lady Catelyn had noticed this, too? Jon was confused and rattled.

“She doesn’t love me more than her true born family. I’m a bastard, she can’t. Can she?”

Robb merely shrugged in response then stood from the table. 

“I’m gonna go find Orys. Pretty sure he was gonna shove sheep shit into Sansa’s mattress.”

Jon shook his head in disappointment. 

“That way leads to more punishment.”

Robb looked at him with sadness. 

“You used to know how to have fun, Jon.”

He bristled at that. 

“What you do isn’t fun, it’s stupid. You’re to be the Lord of Winterfell. Orys, the bloody king. And you’re constantly acting like children.”

The frown that crossed Robb’s face was deep. 

“And what would you know about that?” he snapped. 

He could feel himself blanch at Robb’s retort. Realizing he’d gone too far, his brother raised his hands in apology. 

“You should come. Theon and Orys want you there as much as I do.” The lie didn’t make Jon feel any better. “Well, not Theon. But Orys does. Be part of the pack. As brothers.”

It was tempting but Jon couldn’t. He wouldn’t stand before the Lady Stark and watch her cold blue eyes sparkle in victory, in vindication. No amount of fun was worth that. 

“I can’t. Besides the hunt is coming up and I’ve never been and if I get in trouble I won’t be allowed to go. I wanna go Robb. Real bad.”

Robb sighed and turned to leave. 

“They will let you on the hunt whether you’re in trouble or not, Jon,” his brother tossed out as he made to leave. “Orys is our brother and he gets in as much trouble as me.”

“I’m your brother, too, Robb,” he said, softly, his eyes at his feet. Robb stopped in his tracks and turned. 

“I know, Jon,” he replied with a hint of annoyance, before he turned and walked out the door. 

——————————————-

The feast was quiet and dull, as far as Jon was concerned. Stuck, as usual, down on the bench with the squires, he sullenly picked at his plate. It should have been normal to him, sitting with the squires, away from his family. The Queen had spent a large part of the past five years in Winterfell. Feasts were a common occurrence with her here. There was nothing wrong with sitting down below, while the rest of his family ate above.

Even the peach tart he ate glumly didn’t make the lie any more true. 

The Queen sat in the middle as was her right and soaked in the adulation of the hall. She would send plates of food around the hall; plates of turnips, beets, salted cod and roast goat. Various lords and ladies received the gifts with thanks and praise on their lips. Jon had been gifted the very tart that he was eating, offering a shy thanks to the Queen, who responded with a brilliant smile. 

She would dote on Jon when they were alone. Her hugs and kisses and little gifts were a constant, but when in the company of others she grew distant and aloof. He understood why, a Queen couldn’t show favors to her bastard nephew. But it still rankled him. 

Yet what bothered him even more was how much he wanted her affections, how much he enjoyed the thought of knowing what a mother’s love was, even for a short time. He was twelve years old, not some green little boy, but he still yearned for those moments of fleeting comfort and safety she would provide. 

The worst though was how he could feel his family pulling away from him. Robb and Orys and Theon were practically inseparable and always in trouble. However, Orys was the Crown Prince, with bastard brothers of his own that he had never met. There was a distance growing between them, one Jon knew was because of his bastardry. His cousin once called his baseborn siblings a huge dishonor to his mother. 

_That’s what I am,_ he thought bitterly, _A dishonor to my family._

It wasn’t like the rest of his family had much time for him, either. Sansa had her friends, Jeyne and Beth, the three of them always giggling or sewing. Arya and Princess Lyarra were a pair of misfits, always covered in dirt, always in trouble. Sometimes Jon found himself playing with little Bran. They’d clack sticks in the godswood or Jon would sneak him treats from the kitchen. 

Most times, however, he was alone. He didn’t mind it so much, to be honest. The loneliness was a familiar friend at this point. 

He had been thinking about his future of late. While his siblings and cousins slept, Jon tossed and turned at night, thinking about what his life would hold. What else could it be, but hard and lonely? Better to prepare for that fate than to fight against it, to expect nothing and not be disappointed when given nothing.

Such thoughts had made him gloomy, so Jon left the table and the hall, his feet taking him to a courtyard off the Great Hall. It was quiet out there, but as he got further from the hall, a pair of voices, a man and woman, grew louder.

“It’s a feast, Lynesse,” a man in a Northern accent gruffed. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”

“It’s a paltry feast,” the woman spat back, “in the South this feast would be a family dinner. My father had thrown feasts that would make this look like the peasant gathering it was. And the Queen prefers this to the pageantry of the South?”

She scoffed at the end, and Jon heard her footsteps leading her back towards the hall. After a moment, he thought the way was clear and turned a corner, only to find himself face to face with the man the woman was arguing with. Jon could tell from the bear on his doublet that this was a Mormont man, Ser Jorah, if he wasn’t mistaken. He was burly and surly, black haired and in a foul mood. His eyes held nothing but contempt for Jon.

“Were you listening the whole, time, bastard?” he hissed while moving menacingly towards Jon. Before he could react the man had seized his arm, harshly. The smell of ale was on his breath and Jon could see his eyes were hazy with drink. 

“I’m forced to take the cold grey eyes of Starks staring down at me, judging me. I’ll not take it from one of their bastards.” The man lifted a hand as if to strike him when a voice rang out.

“Unhand my son.”

In a heartbeat, Jon was free of his grasp and he turned to face his father. Ned Stark was alone and unarmed as he strode towards Jon and Ser Jorah. After giving Jon a once over, his father stood toe to toe with Mormont. For a moment they glared at each other before Ser Jorah blinked and came to his senses and backed down. 

“Apologies, my lord, I’ve had too much ale.”

His father didn’t blink at the knight, silently forcing the man to bow before backing off slowly. 

“I thought as much, Ser Jorah. Apologize to my son and take your leave.”

Jon recognized what his father had asked and loved him for it. An anointed knight apologizing to a bastard was unheard of. But Jon would hear it, even if Ser Jorah turned purple with unsaid outrage.

“Apologies, Snow.” he sputtered with a slight bow before turning on his heel and walking off. 

When he was gone it was just Jon and his father in the courtyard, the moonlight showing the anger blazed on his face. Jon went to him as he held his arms open and leaned into his embrace.

“You didn’t have to make him apologize, father.” Jon felt guilt and shame that his father had to protect him, he had brought enough shame to Eddard Stark as it was.

“You are my son,” he declared, breaking apart the hug and kneeling so Jon was taller than him. “I will always protect you.”

It felt like the truth. But Jon knew it wasn’t. 

——————————————-

He was sitting at the end table in his room that doubled as his desk, quill in hand. Maester Luwin had scolded Jon for his poor work in High Valyrian and ordered him to write out some phrases. Jon truly didn’t understand why he had to learn this language, that of a long dead people used only by those halfway around the world, but the maester was insistent. 

Jon couldn’t even use his bastardry to get out of the High Valyrian lessons. “The Queen insists her children learn the language. Your Lord Father has agreed with her and wants all his children to learn the language. All their children, Jon.” 

“Dracarys,” he said as he scribbled the word. “Dragon Fire,” is what it translated to, roughly. The dragonlords of Old Valyria had used the word as a command to their dragons to unleash a fiery hell. Jon shuddered at the thought. 

But despite that horror, Jon often dreamt of dragons. In them, he was riding on the back of one, like the Targaryens of old, flying through the air. Those dreams were his favorite. 

It took some time but he had managed to complete the assignment. The sun had set a while ago, however the castle was still bustling in the post-dinner hours. The maester told him to have the work ready for the morn, but Jon was going to bring it now. Perhaps he could curry some favor with the old man by bringing it early. Luwin always liked that. 

As he began to climb the steps in the Maester’s turret, Jon knocked into a man in armor, sending him down to the ground. The familiar gold plate shined even in this low light. But it wasn’t his uncle or even Ser Barristan. The Knight was Ser Mandon Moore. “Watch it bastard,” he said, not even breaking stride on his descent. 

After getting up and giving himself a once over, Jon continued to climb the steps. That Ser Mandon was in the Maester’s Tower was strange to him. Mayhaps he had to send a raven? Jon pushed the thought from his mind. 

When he got to the Luwin’s office, Jon found it locked. That was a recent change. His Lord Father suggested it after Arya and Princess Lyarra snuck into the place while Maester Luwin was tending to a sick scullery maid and stole some vials. The pair had gotten Bran sick with one tincture they poured into his water. They had almost burned down the First Keep when another vial had been tossed into a dying hearth and caused a massive explosion. 

Lord Eddard and Queen Lyanna were as angry as Jon had ever seen them as they upbraided their children. For their punishment, the pair were responsible for changing the rushes in the stables for the next two moons. Robb and Theon and Orys had enjoyed tormenting the pair as they worked, going so far as to load a wheelbarrow up with pig shit and dump it on the stable floor. That in turn had led to even more punishments and now it seemed like the only children not in trouble were he and Sansa and little Bran. 

With it locked, Jon slid the parchment under the door and made his way back to the family quarters. The hour was still early despite the darkness and Jon was sure that Old Nan was in the middle of regaling the other kids with her stories. Jon had heard them all but he enjoyed them nonetheless. Sitting in that large room with a fire flickering and the old bat spinning a yarn about giants or ice spiders or of Prince Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones was one of his favorite things. He and his siblings and cousins, and even sometimes Theon, listening and laughing and hooting at the stories always made him smile. 

He felt like a true part of the family in those moments, which made the rest of the time so painful. 

Inside the family keep, Lord Eddard’s solar door was open and light from the room bathed the hall in an orange hue. Before he could move from the stairs to the hall, he saw a figure walk into the solar. There was no mistaking her pregnant silhouette, nor the red hair atop it. 

Lady Catelyn rarely sat in on those stories, instead spending her evenings tending to the castle, going over logs or whatever else it was she did. But she was here now and Jon couldn’t go in the room. Not now, not even with the laughter of his siblings and cousins sounding inviting. Were he to enter, the laughter would stop and an uncomfortable silence would replace it. 

Jon had been in these situations enough to know they were best avoided. That walking away and going off by himself was the simplest solution and best for all. But not for him. It was lonely sometimes, being a bastard. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there on the steps, but after a time, he walked back down them, slowly. The courtyard opened before him, but there was only one place in the castle Jon felt truly at home in. 

The godswood welcomed him, as it always did. In his solitude it offered solace. He was expecting to be alone, but he saw the Queen, on her knees in front of the great weirwood tree, a flower in her hand. She turned when he approached, a sad smile on her face and rose to meet him.

“You’re not with your siblings or cousins? Did you tire of that old bat’s tales?” 

He chuckled at that, “No, your Grace. I just...didn’t think I should be in the room tonight.”

She nodded sadly at that. “The Lady Stark did tell me she wanted to listen to the stories. Apparently Bran was up last night with a terrible nightmare. Went crawling to her bed.”

“Same thing happened to me,” he said remembering how terrified he was at Bran’s age. “It was the Ice Spiders...”

“Big as hounds,” the Queen finished, doing a rather good impression of Old Nan. 

They laughed at that. “That was a long night,” he continued with humor in his voice, “I think at one point I sat sobbing in the corner of my room holding the old dragon you gave me as protection until I fell asleep against the stone.” 

Queen Lyanna’s face fell, instantly. Guilt flooded him. Once again, Jon had ruined a conversation with his aunt. “I’m sorry you were alone,” she muttered. 

Jon gave her a questioning look. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you sad, your Grace. I just thought it was a funny story.” 

“There’s nothing funny about it, love. But don’t apologize. It’s not your fault in the slightest.” She smiled at him, but it was a tight smile and insincere. 

They ambled down the path away from the weirwood in a comfortable silence. 

“You seem to be by yourself most times,” she stated. “Why is that?”

He felt a flush of embarrassment bloom up his neck to his cheeks. Lying to the Queen was a fool’s errand, she always seemed to know when he was keeping the truth from her.

“I don’t know, your Grace. Sometimes I just think it’s better off if I’m not around. It’s...easier for everyone.”

She said nothing, holding his gaze with a sad look in her eyes. In her hand was a blue winter rose and she softly stroked the petal between her thumb and forefinger. Jon took her silence as a demand to continue. 

“Besides, I don’t mind being on my own a lot. I’m used to it.”

“Bullshit,” she spat with real anger in her voice. Jon’s eyes went wide with shock and he took a step back from her. But the Queen closed the distance between them. “No one likes being alone, Jon.”

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was angry at him, her eyes two orbs of cold grey fire directed at him. Yet for some reason he stood his ground. 

“No one likes being a bastard, either,” he spat back at her. She recoiled from him, as if slapped. The flower slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. 

His heart was pumping, sending blood coursing through his shaking body. This was dangerous ground he was walking on. If he had ever talked back to Lady Stark like this, she might have him flogged for it. But something deep inside Jon told him the Queen was different, despite the fact that her face had become a mask and her emotions unreadable to him. 

“When I was growing up here, it was hard being the only girl. But I had friends, children of the servants. And above all, I had your uncles.”

Jon took a deep breath. “With respect, your Grace, you were a true born Stark. I’m not. I’m just a motherless bastard.”

Her mask slipped for a moment and Jon saw a flash of something like guilt break across her face before it was gone and the mask returned. “I’m tired, love. It’s getting late and you should find your bed.”

The anger in him was subsiding, but still smoldering as he nodded and walked away from the Queen. Before he walked out of view, Jon turned back to the weirwood and saw the Queen on her knees, hands flat against the white bark, sobbing. 

————————————————

 

The party had set off from Winterfell just before dawn. There were a dozen of them, Jon included, that were going hunting in the Wolfswood. They would be gone a fortnight, at least, in the wild, astride a horse, chasing wolves and stags. Jon Snow could barely contain his excitement. He had never gone hunting in a party before, unlike Robb and Orys. All he had were their own stories, which he was sure were inflated well beyond what was true.

Now Jon Snow would have a story of his own.

The Queen and Lady Stark fussed over them in the days before their departure. Neither woman was happy when Lord Eddard gave each of the boys, save Theon who had long had live steel, a steel sword for the trip. They were plain and unadorned, but sharp and sturdy. Well worth the near endless lecture about safety and responsibility that came with the blades. But they were nearly men grown. And men used steel, not sticks.

He, Robb, Orys, Theon, Ser Barristan, Uncle Benjen, Jory and half a dozen Stark guards had made it to the edge of the Wolfswood before midday. The boys spent the morning racing their steeds from one hill to another, from one tree and back, until Ser Barristan grew wroth with them and threatened to drag them all back to Winterfell. The old knight was skilled enough to do it, so they all calmed down. It wasn’t just the anger of the Bold that sobered them, the mood shifted in the party when they entered the wolfswood. 

There was something ancient about these woods. The way the trees hung, low and thick, making the canopy of cover seem a blanket through which little sunlight could penetrate. Even the air tasted old. Most people would be frightened by such, but Jon had the blood of the First Men pumping through his veins. He was not a little boy, scared by some trees.

“Gage says there’s direwolves in these woods. Have been for centuries, just hiding out, waiting.” Robb said, into the silence. “What do you think, Orys?”

Jon knew his brother well enough to know that his rambling was a cover to mask his fear. 

Uncle Benjen barked with laughter, “Only direwolves here are the Stark kind and they’re no threat. Only the four of us, three pups and an aging man.”

The math had worked because his uncle had included Jon as a pup. He loved him for it. 

“Well, one wolf is a little more...mongrel than the others,” Theon Greyjoy said as he spurred his horse forward into a full on gallop. The barb stung Jon, as was intended. He felt his anger rise and a flush bloom on his face. Before Jon could fully react, a hand reached out and grabbed his reins. “Easy, son,’ Benjen said quietly, “easy. He’s just jealous of you, is all.”

The party ambled on while Jon and his uncle stayed behind. He looked the Kingsguard in his face and found an easy and open smile. Benjen always had one for Jon, no matter where they were or who was around them. When they were alone, he placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“I know it’s hard, being a Snow. I can’t imagine the pain and loneliness you feel at times. Just watchin’ you at feasts, separated from the family, it makes me angry. So I can’t imagine how it makes you feel. But what I said is true, Jon. You’re a part of this family, a whole and equal part. No matter what Lady Catelyn or Theon Greyjoy say. You’ve got the blood of Winterfell coursing through your veins. They don’t.”

He smiled bashfully at his uncle’s words and they galloped to catch up with the rest of the party.

___________________________

 

As the sun was setting, a camp was formed in a small clearing. In the middle was a weirwood tree, old and large, with a face carved into it, blood red tears dripping down.. The large fire he and Robb had set up cast dancing shadows across the pale white face, the flames making the bloody sap glow a deep crimson. Like the rest of these woods, it presented a frightening facade, but Jon saw through it. He felt at peace here, somehow. 

Jon was pulled from his reverie by a squawk of a raven as it circled above the camp a few times and settled next to Jon, nuding him with his beak. After a tense moment the party erupted in laughter, Jon chuckling with them. Orys tossed Jon a piece of hard bread and he crumbled a bit on the floor. The raven ate greedily.

“Jon’s found a new friend,” Orys said as the laughter died down. “Mother will be so pleased.”

Jon couldn’t tell what Orys’ point was but the mirth had been replaced with a bit of tension, which caused Jon to shift in his seat uncomfortably. Before he could answer, however, Ser Barristan stood from the circle and shushed them, drawing his sword in a smooth motion. Uncle Benjen and Jory and the guards followed his lead, quickly, as they all scanned the dark forest.

“Ben, secure the Prince. There’s a party of men, at least a dozen strong, beyond the treeline. They’re coming.” Barristan the Bold declared. “I mean to meet them.”

“As do I,” Orys declared imperiously. “They’re after me, I reckon. They won’t find me so easy to get.”

“Shut it, Orys,” Robb hissed. Jon was glad that his brother had enough sense to recognize their perilous state.

“Boys, get down on the ground. Cover your heads. That’s an order.” Uncle Benjen’s voice was so cold that Jon shivered as he fell to the ground, on his stomach, crawling to where Robb and Orys had done the same. 

“Greyjoy, grab that bow of yours and use the weirwood as cover. Climb the branches, I’ve seen you do it before. Jory, with me. Harwin, go with Barristan. Rest of ya, on me. Protect the boys.”

“Uncle, we can fight! We have the same sharp steel you have,” Orys said, pulling on Benjen’s leg. But their uncle paid him no mind. Instead, he moved towards the other men, all with their blades in hand and whispered instructions they couldn’t hear.

Jon could feel his heart thumping against his chest, hard and fast. Laying on the ground, he could see the fear in Orys and Robb’s eyes, fear that was no doubt reflected in his grey eyes as well. 

Ser Barristan and Harwin had taken off into the woods. A moment later the distant sound of steel and screaming filled the air. Theon climbed the branches above them. 

Tension stretched out before him, taught and tight like a string. All of them in the clearing were waiting, helplessly, for the inevitable snap. Jon was stuck on the ground, on his belly, steel sword pressed to his chest, waiting.

It wasn’t a long wait, though as he heard Theon fire an arrow from above, into the darkness and heard a groan and the sound of a body hitting the floor. 

The rest came flooding into the clearing with weapons in their hands and screams on their lips. Jon watched in horror as one Stark guard was killed immediately. Next to where he fell Uncle Benjen was fighting three men at once and handling himself. Two men were on horse as they rode into the clearing, trampling a man named Mychal who worked in the forge. 

It was chaos. This was nothing like the songs or stories he had heard. The dead weren’t glorious, the fighting wasn’t beautiful. One man was moaning in pain as his entrails spilled from his belly. Uncle Benjen cut a man’s throat and Jon saw him fall, blood pouring out from his neck, and the light leave his eyes. 

_This was horrific_. 

With a great clamor, he saw the two riders throw hooks on ropes toward his Uncle, getting them stuck in the joints, and watched in horror as they dragged him off into the woods. 

Five sellswords were left, until another arrow flew from above and found its target in the eye of one. 

_Four now._

One of the men lifted a crossbow to the tree and fired. Jon screamed when he heard Theon gasp and fall behind them. He couldn’t take this anymore, these men dying for him, a useless bastard. So Jon Snow stood, steel still in hand and turned to his enemies. Robb and Orys followed suit. 

But it was them and Jory, four against four. A big man, an ugly one, a stout one and a thin one stood before them.

“Which of you is the Prince?” a stout man asked, his face caked with blood and mud. 

“I am,” Jon responded, haughtily. “Who is it that’s asking?”

He could feel Orys bristling beside him but the Prince made no noise. Jon hoped he understood. 

“Kill him,” an ugly man standing next to the stout one said, “He’s the one we are here for.”

How did these sellswords know they were here? 

The four charged them and in a flash, Jory had killed his man, the thin one, leaving the three sellswords against the four of them. But that became three quickly as Robb blocked an attack with his blade only to find the big sellsword’s mailed fist at his temple. His brother fell with a sickening crunch. 

In the chaos, Jon had lost his man and felt a blinding pain in his left thigh and then his left shoulder. When he looked down, arrows were sticking from them and when he looked back up, the stout man was smiling, holding two crossbows. 

_Do not fall,_ a voice, sweet and feminine and familiar said in his ear. 

He stayed on his feet and helped Jory fend off the big man, allowing his father’s man to hack the arm off the sellsword, sending him to the ground with a high pitched scream. “Jon!” he heard Orys scream as he turned, barely getting his blade up to block most of the mace that the ugly man had sent towards his head. Still, the blinding pain came and he fell to the floor like a sack of rocks, blood gushing from his head. 

“Jory!” he heard Orys scream a second later and Jon knew that the younger Cassel was dead. 

He felt a pair of hands turn him on his back, sending pain shooting through him. “Don’t look like a Prince,” a man muttered to him.

“That’s because he’s not,” Orys yelled. “I’m the Prince. He’s just a bastard.”

“Hmm,” the man responded as he pushed Jon back on the ground, causing him to scream in pain. “As you say, your grace.”

He could feel the blood as it flowed down his head, over his eye and across his cheek. When it hit his lips the familiar copper taste filled his mouth. Pain coursed through him, enveloped him in its grasp. Jon had an arrow in his shoulder and one in his leg, both of which were also bleeding.

 _Do not fall,_ the woman’s voice repeated in his mind, cutting through the fog of his overwhelming agony. “Mother?” he muttered, blinkingly. 

When he rolled over, the pair of sellswords left alive were rounding on Orys, who was on his arse, trying to clamber away but backed into the weirwood tree, cornered and panicked. The white face in the bark, bloody tears flowing from its eyes, looked on dispassionately. 

“Nowhere to run to, your grace,” the ugly one said as he lifted his sword.

“No,” Jon found himself saying as he stood, somehow, on wobbly legs, with Jory’s blade in his hand.

The sellswords turned from Orys to him, and laughed. “Jon, no!” Orys yelled.

“I’m not done with you, yet.” Jon gritted as he lifted his blade with his shaky arm, the other dangling next to him, useless. 

“Bastard wants to play? Then let’s play,” the squat one spat.

They approached him at the same time, slowly, moving away from each other and coming in on Jon from a wide angle.

He breathed deeply through his nose and held it for half a second, putting all his pain and misery, his loneliness and shame, anger and fear, all of it, in that breath. Then he let it go out of his mouth.

When he lifted his sword arm again, it was steady. And when the squat one’s steel swung towards his head, Jon met it with his own. He parried quickly, spinning to swipe at the ugly one’s strike to stab and ducked under his response, dragging the edge of his sword deeply across the man’s thigh and up his leg to his gut, drawing blood and a hiss of pain.

Jon turned to meet the squat one’s blade, but he was a touch too slow as their swords clanged. His whole arm shook violently as the blade fell from his hand. Before he could react further, he heard the whistle of arrows past his face. One found the squat one’s eye, sending him to the ground, dead. 

His energy was fading quickly and the pain he had kept at bay was breaking through his dams. Jon fell to his knees, breathing heavily, watching as the ugly one limped towards him, sword raised. He blindly found the hilt of Jory’s sword again and raised it in defense. This time another blade broke through the sellsword’s chest before it could reach Jon’s, more blood flowing onto him as the man fell limp to his death.

“That one was mine,” he muttered to the man in the gold armor who stood over him, as he fainted.

_____________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benjen and Theon are alive, I don't want to you to think I'm teasing you. 
> 
> Hope this chapter wasn't too rough. Next up is Jon II (part 2) and then it's either Lyanna II or Dany II and I'm unsure. Lyanna II is her life in KL with Robert and the Lannister's. Dany II is her in Vaes Tolorro finding out truths from Rhaella as Jon is passed out. Which do you guys wanna see first? Let me know in comments as I'm genuinely torn. Thanks!
> 
> EDIT: Since you've all been kind in the comments and I still feel guilty about the three month gap in between chapters, I posted a sneak peek on tumblr for chapter 6:
> 
> https://strickland527.tumblr.com/post/186106907901/a-wolf-apart-chapter-6-preview


	6. JON II (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon visits some relatives, King Robert can't stop cucking himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Jon at 12ish, part 2. I kind of maybe like parts of this? Anyway, see you at the end of the chapter, I'm sure we will have lots to talk about.
> 
> And, as always, thank you for the comments.

The first thing he’s aware of is a whooshing in his ears and a bright white light that fills his eyes. It doesn’t hurt -- he feels no pain -- but it is a nuisance. He blinks the light away, hoping his eyes will adjust, and slowly his vision returns and the sound dissipates. 

He can feel the clothes he’s wearing, light and comfortable. When he glances down, he sees a black velvet doublet, with matching pants. On his breast is a red dragon, with three heads. It seems familiar to him. Familiar and forbidden. 

Lifting his head from the ground, he can see his surroundings coming into view. It’s a great hall of some place he’s never been. A grand and beautiful palace, adorned with riches Jon has never known. One thing stands out amongst the glass and vases and stone and gold: 

_Dragons_

They’re all around him; carved into the stone, molded into metal, staining the glass. Dragons, everywhere. Black and green and cream and red, so many differently colored dragons. 

After a moment he realizes that he’s not alone in the Great Hall. At the far end of the Hall is a man, clad in black armor, with white hair. 

Jon Snow walks to greet him. 

As he does, Jon can swear he sees ghosts as he passes each window. Some smile when seeing him, some ignore him and some look at him with hatred. 

An older woman, pretty and wearing a crown, with blue eyes smiles and reaches out to him, but her hands are nothing and they pass through his. Past her some is another crowned woman, a colder look with a much fuller face, who regards him within doubt in her violet eyes. 

Jon walks past them all and starts to reach the end of the hall. 

One old man with long and ragged hair and nails glares at him with wild purple eyes, a wound in his gut bleeding. Next to him another man, younger but with a similar look, meets his eyes with hatred as flames dance and lick around him. 

But Jon can’t take long to dwell on them because he’s standing in front of the man in black. The man’s hair isn’t white, it’s more a silver-gold. Like many of the ghosts, this man has purple eyes, only his are indigo. They’re also full of a melancholy so overwhelming that Jon has to look away from them. Red rubies cover the chest of the black plate armor this man is wearing, but in the middle is a gaping wound in his chest, which has knocked lots of the rubies off. 

“Do you know where we are,” Jon asks shyly. 

It seems as if Jon has shaken the man from his reverie. He looks at Jon as if he’s noticing him for the first time. 

“Hmm?” he asks, distractedly.

Jon sighs in annoyance at the man and asks again, “Do you know where we are?”

“I do,” he says, looking around the hall, “I’ve never seen the palace so...complete, though. When I saw it last, it was a ruin.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but Jon thinks it will have to suffice.

“Who are you, lad?” the man asks.

“I’m Jon Snow, the natural son of Lord Eddard Stark.”

Confusion lines the face of the man in front of him. 

“If you’re not a dragon, then why are you here?”

Jon isn’t sure, either. The last thing he remembers is the fight in the godswood. 

“Am I dead?” he asks and when he looks down, he sees an arrow sticking out of his shoulder and one out of his thigh. But still, no pain.

“You must be dead. I am, too. I haven’t been here that long. I remember saying her name as I collapsed into the river and now I’m here. Maybe it’s one of the seven hells? I deserve it. I failed and now the world is doomed, son.”

Something like anger flares in him, for reasons he’s not exactly sure. 

“I’m not your son!” he seethes. 

The man looks sadder than he has so far and nods gently. “As you say.”

There was something familiar about this man. His identity is something Jon should know. 

“Who are you?”

He smiles shyly at that. “Do you truly not know? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who hasn’t.”

Before he can answer, Jon hears a door opening behind him. When he turns to find the sound, there’s a man standing in front of him, a deep and angry scowl on his face. 

“I swear, boy, by the old gods and the new, I turn from the wolves to deal with the kraken for a few days and you’re half dead... ” 

This man is unlike any Jon has ever seen in his life. His skin is pale white as bone and his long hair is even paler. A deep red blotch runs up from his neck to his cheek just short of his eye. 

_Gods, his eye._

It’s an even deeper red than his birthmark. But there’s only one, as his other eye is gone, with only a hole where it should have been. Staring at his eye seems to have made him angrier as his scowl increases. 

“Yes, my eye, a terrible thing, now follow me, boy.”

When he turns back to the first man, he sees confusion in his purple eyes. Jon is torn between these two strange men. He knows he should go with the one eyed man, but the other one looks so sad and confused that Jon doesn’t wanna leave him. 

“He’s not going anywhere. Besides, he can’t help you. He had his chance. The fool failed. And now he’s here.”

The snide way this man is speaking is too much for Jon. 

“No. I’m not leaving him until I know what’s going on. Who he is. Who you are. Tell me. Now.” 

The anger is coursing through him, he feels...he _feels_ for the first time since he woke here. 

The one eyed man just laughs. “Ah, maybe there is some dragon in you, boy. You try so hard to be a wolf, I thought maybe you snuffed your fire out.”

“Dragon?” He’s more confused than angry, now. 

The one eyed man sighs, “This isn’t your place, lad anymore than it’s mine,” he says before turning and walking away, back towards the entrance. Jon glances at the purple eyed man one more time, he lifts a black gauntlet in sad farewell, which Jon imitates before following the albino man. 

They don’t make it very far before a ghost in yellow enameled armor, with a red winged horse, accosts them. “Where is she, bastard?!” He bellows, his purple eyes alight with anger as his long black hair flaps limply behind him. “You took her from me!”

“He still thinks she’s dead!” is the one eyes man’s mirthful response. His whole body is shaking with laughter. After a moment he looks at the ghost and says, “Not yet, brother.” 

They’re then alone in the hall again. “Why did that man hate you, Ser?” Jon asks. 

“He’s not the only one in here to hate me. I’ve sent more than my fair share to this place. But it’s not my place yet. Anymore than it’s yours, boy.”

They make it to the end of the hall. There stands a tall, handsome man wearing a dark iron crown, ringed in rubies. Next to him are two beautiful women; one harsh and one soft, also wearing crowns. Three sets of purple eyes stare into his. 

“This is him?” the king asks the one eyed man. 

“A possibility,” he responds, turning his one red eye towards Jon. “A strong one. Him or the girl. Maybe both.”

All four people regard him for a moment. “He’ll do, won’t he sister?” asks the soft one. “Mayhaps,” the harsh one responds, never breaking eye contact with Jon. “You see many futures, Rivers. Is this the one where he kills her?” The harsh woman’s gaze becomes cold and hard as it stares into his eyes.

The one eyed man chuckles next to him, “No, your grace. This is not that tale.”

“Good,” the soft woman says lyrically, “that tale was shit.”

The king is staring at him with his arms crossed, his look pensive. “What better name for a king?” he muses.

Then they’re gone, as well. Mists in the breeze. 

“You’ve never told me where I am. Or who you are. Or who all these other people are.” Jon notes to the red eyed man, resigned to the fact that he won’t answer his questions.

“What’s the point? There’s not much of this you’re gonna remember, anyway. All I’ll tell you is to tell your stubborn brother to let me into his dreams. It’s been almost a decade and he still keeps pushing me out.”

“Robb?”

The man sighs sadly in resignation. “Seven hells, you’re almost not worth the trouble are you?” A moment of silence stretches between them before he adds, “Almost.”

He steps towards Jon and places a hand near his chest. “Try to go more than a few years without almost getting yourself killed, hmm?” Something like a smile graces his features. For a moment, Jon almost thinks him handsome. “And now, you wake.”

The man touches Jon’s chest and the noise in his ears and light in his eyes increase until they overwhelm him and he’s lost.

\----------------------------------------------------------

He was half-numb when he woke. The left side of his body was useless; his arm in a sling, his leg bandaged heavily and his eye covered. 

The sun spilled in through the curtains of the room he was in, tendrils of light stringing across the stone. Jon laidin a large bed, and in a bigger room. It was one he recognized from years ago, the room the Queen stayed in when she visited Winterfell. 

He noticed two small piles under the fur at his feet, long brown hair spilling out from them. Arya and Lyarra if he had to guess. 

Slowly, he flexed the left hand, open and closed. It still worked. His toes were the same when he wiggled them. Numb, but functional. He tried to open his left eye, but that was when the pain hit him, quick and harsh, the moment the light bled through the cover on his eye, which he snapped shut.

The moan he released caused one of the two piles at his feet to stir. Princess Lyarra lifted her head and wiped her eyes before looking at him.

“Jon?” she asked, groggily. “Jon! Arya, Jon’s up!” she yelled, slapping the pile of furs next to her. It took only a moment before his sister was also screaming his name in happiness and another before she launched herself at his good side, throwing her arms around him.

“You scared us so much, Jon,” she sniffled into his neck. When she pulled back, Lyarra filled the spot with a hug of her own, her tears on his shoulder. She squeezed him too tight, though and he groaned in pain. 

“You’re hurting him, stupid,” Arya scolded Lyarra when she pulled back. Jon saw tears in the young Princess’ eyes. He tried to console her, but his words came out as an unintelligible moan. 

“I’m gonna go get mama and the maester,” the little Princess said as she clambered off the bed and rushed out the door. 

“Who lived?” Jon asked Arya through gritted teeth, the mere act of talking sending pain coursing through him. 

“Jory’s dead,” she whispered sadly, “Mychal, too. Fat Tom. Some other guards. I forget their name.” 

She frowned at the revelation. “But Orys is okay. Couple of broken bones in his arm. Maester Luwin said he’d be fine in a few weeks. Robb was out of it for a while with the knock on his head, but he’s come around. Uncle Benjen and Ser Barristan are fine. And Theon…”

The pause she gave made Jon shudder. Theon was a shit most of the time, but he was all but sure that Greyjoy had saved him in the clearing. 

“Theon…took an arrow in the arse!” Arya said, as her face broke into a huge smile. Jon chuckled with her before swallowing his laughter in pain. His sister frowned at him. 

“You were the biggest worry. It’s been over a week and you’ve been asleep. Maester Luwin said you lost lots of blood. We’ve kept shifts in the room here so someone would be with you if you woke. Stupid Lyarra was supposed to be awake.”

“It’s okay,” he started, as she fidgeted with his blanket, nervously. 

The door opened before he could finish, Lyarra was back with Maester Luwin, Orys and the Queen. His cousin had his right arm in a sling but seems otherwise fine, as Arya said. 

“You’re awake,” his aunt said as she hurried to his side, her smile wide and relief palpable. Maester Luwin checked his wounds and muttered appreciatively at his progress. 

“The thigh will heal nicely, Jon as the arrow got the fleshy part. Well, as much flesh as a skinny boy like you has. The shoulder should, too, you might have occasional numbness and a tingling sensation in your hand, but seeing as it’s your weak one and not your sword hand, I’m not concerned. The head, though. It will leave a nasty scar, I’m sad to say.”

“It will only make you handsomer for the ladies,” the Queen said next to him. Orys chuckled and immediately launched into his dramatic retelling of the “Battle of the Wolfswood.” 

“That’s what I’m calling it,” he said as his aunt, cousins and sister sat on the bed and listened. 

—————————————

He fell asleep soon after, a seemingly never ending line of people coming and going, wishing him well, all the while the Queen sat on the bed next to him.

Initially he was confused as to why so many people had come to see him, but Orys had spent the past few days spreading the tale of Jon’s actions in the godswood. He didn’t remember much of what happened but couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that Orys was exaggerating his feats. 

“No, lad,” Ser Barristan responded when Jon told him what he thought, “you were as brave and gallant as any man I’ve ever seen. An arrow in the shoulder, an arrow in the leg and bleeding profusely from the head, you stood and fought two men on your own. If anything the Prince isn’t doing your actions justice. Trust me on that.”

Before he left, the old knight shared a strange look with the Queen and bowed. 

When he woke again, night had fallen, but the Queen was still sitting in the bed next to him. She noticed him stirring and moved next to him, pushing some of his hair out of his face. 

“I was so scared,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You have to stop knocking on death’s door, Jon.”

He shrugged at her request. “I try not to die, your Grace,” he said softly. “But it tries to find me, I guess.”

She sighed and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Why did you claim to be the Prince?” 

He had always been unable to lie to his aunt. There was something about the way her grey eyes looked at him that made him spill the truth like a scared little boy. 

“Because Orys is important. And I’m not,” he admitted. “I’m just a bastard.” 

He flexed his left hand, nervously, awaiting the Queen’s response. Her face was as crestfallen as Jon had ever seen it. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way, love, but it’s not true. I love you,” she said with tears in her eyes, “as much as Orys or Lyarra.”

She grabbed his hand and looked at him with such sincerity it almost hurt him. 

“That’s not true, your Grace. It can’t be. Orys and Lyarra are your true born children with the King. I’m just your motherless bastard nephew.”

She fidgeted with his blanket nervously, suspiciously. Jon had thought for sometime that the Queen not only knew who his mother was, but knew her, personally. 

“Who is my mother?” 

Her head snapped back towards him, the mask she often wore, with it. “That’s for your father to say, Jon. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I will see you soon.”

It was as he suspected. But he wasn’t in any position to demand anything of any of his family. He was just lucky to be there around them and not shuffled off to some minor Lord’s keep as a favor. 

“As you say, your Grace,” he muttered as she walked out of the room, leaving him alone. 

—————————————

The King arrived in Winterfell with an army of 10,000 men behind him and the entire Small Council. The ancient castle was fit to bursting. Even Lord Jon Arryn had come North, with his wife and child in tow. Lady Stark was buzzing with happiness at the prospect of seeing her sister and nephew. The King had left his younger brother, Lord Renly in charge of the capitol. 

The largest army to march through the Neck in thousands of years, all for the protection of Orys and Lyarra and the Queen. Their time at Winterfell was ending. They wouldn’t be going back alone, though. Robb, Theon, Sansa and Arya would head south with them. Jon would find himself almost truly alone, it seemed. The prospect made him queasy 

His recovery had been slow, but steady, so that by the time the King came to Winterfell, a full two moons after the attack, Jon was able to move freely. In a few weeks time he would be healthy enough to wield a sword again, Maester Luwin said, but Jon had defied his orders and used his confinement in his room to practice his form, refusing to allow the old measter’s words to slow him down.

That was how he was found by the maester one afternoon soon after the King’s arrival, much to the old man’s consternation. 

“By the gods, boy, I told you no sword! But there’s no time for this, you’ve been summoned to Court. The King has asked for you by name. Come, lad. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

Jon felt a little faint and nervous by the news, lamely muttering responding, “Me?”

The Maester insisted that Jon follow him immediately, and he did, through the castle and into the Guest Tower. It was where Jon spent part of his convalescence, in the Queen’s chambers. As he got to those rooms, though, he saw the King had taken them over. Standing outside the solar were two Kingsguard members, Ser Mandon Moore and the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. Both regarded Jon with poorly concealed scorn as they opened the door, letting him into the room.

The solar was fit to burst as Jon walked into it. Familiar faces stared at him as he walked slowly towards the royal family. Robert Baratheon sat in a chair at the end of the solar, his back to the wall. Next to him was the Queen, looking as pretty as Jon had ever seen her, a crown resting on her head, her face a mask. Orys and Lyarra were next to their mother, smiling brightly. On the other side of the King was Lord Jon Arryn, his Hand. Jon had only seen his namesake once before, at the great feast welcoming all of them to Winterfell some days ago. The old man had a soft smile for him. Besides Lord Arryn was Lord Stannis Baratheon, a cold look on his grim face. Beyond him were a few Lords that Jon Snow didn’t recognize until he reached his father and the Lady Stark. Both had grim smiles on their faces.

In the five years since he had seen him last, Robert Baratheon had grown fatter and fatter. Robb had told him the king had fathered some more bastards since then, too. Jon was sure that his Lord father was unhappy with the king. As for the Queen? Her demeanor towards her husband was absolutely ice cold. 

When he reached them, he went to a knee and lowered his head. “My apologies, your Grace, but I was told that you had called for me.” 

“Stand, bastard, stand,” the King commanded and Jon quickly obeyed. “This is Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard son. My son Orys has spent years here with Lord Stark and his children. And one of them saved his life from an attempted assassination. Orys, Robb and this bastard stood against grown men.”

“They lost, though,” came a voice from the wings, childish and mocking. Jon turned his head to see the simpering Joffrey Baratheon, a sneer on his face, matched by his mother, Cersei Lannister, sitting next to him. Their gold heads and green eyes held high and haughty at the room turning to them. There was no mistaking them for anything other than Lannister’s. 

Robert Baratheon’s face reddened with rage in an instant and he strode towards his nephew. “What did you say, boy?’ he raged. “They lost to men, just as you would,” the King bellowed as he stuck one of his fat fingers in the young boy’s face. “I wager you wouldn’t last a second against anyone even competent with a blade. Want me to find one and test my theory?”

Joffrey Baratheon paled at his uncle’s words, while the Lady Cersei stared daggers at the King as she wrapped a protective arm around her son. “Brother,” Lord Stannis gritted, “the lad meant no harm, I’m sure.” 

Whatever contempt Lady Cersei held for Robert Baratheon was dwarfed by the utter disgust on her face when she looked towards Lord Stannis. While the Queen was ice towards her husband, Lady Cersei was wildfire towards hers, her green eyes ablaze with fury. But her choler was swallowed under the King’s harsh gaze.

“No harm?” King Robert turned back towards his Lord brother, “Let us hope so, brother.” The King made his way back to his chair and sat, all his rage gone from him, leaving him looking deflated. “Let us hope so. If not, I’m glad my son is surrounded by family that will protect him, that will guard his back, not stab him in it.”

The tension in the room was escalating quickly and Jon was in the middle of it, shifting slightly from one foot to the other in a nervous dance, desperately hoping to be anywhere other than where he was. He flexed his left arm, which had gone slightly numb from his anxiety. 

“Jon Snow,” Lord Arryn said besides the King, his old eyes soft as he stared at him, “Your Lord father named you for me, I’m told. After your actions in the Wolfswood, I’m glad for it.” Lord Arryn smiled at him sincerely and for a moment, Jon’s guard relaxed. Next to Jon Arryn, his wife, the Lady Lysa was white faced and clutching the child on her lap as if he could float away at any moment. 

“Yes, such boldness and bravery shall be rewarded under my reign,” King Robert declared, “I’ve yet to decide what would make a good reward.” The room muttered around him. When Jon turned back to the King, he saw the deep blue eyes sparkle with mirth. “Lots of your mother’s family in you, I’d imagine, bastard.” Jon’s ears thrummed with anticipation. _My mother’s family?_ "Ser Barristan says you’re good with a blade. Just like your unc…”

“Robert,” the Queen interrupted him, a look of panic on her face, “enough.”

The room was silent as it stared at him. Laughter greeted the Queen’s plea. “Fine, fine, you Starks and your secrets. Boy, I promise a fine reward for your fine deed. You can leave.”

With a wave, the King dismissed him and Jon felt his feet take him from the room, numb and shaken. 

________________________

“Seven hells,” Robb sighed as Orys and Joffrey had to be pulled off each other for the second time that day. Ser Barristan grabbed Orys and Ser Jaime grabbed Joff and pushed them towards opposite ends of the courtyard. The royal court had been in Winterfell for over a fortnight and the tension that came with it had been overbearing. King Robert and Lord Stannis had little love between them and their children had absorbed that conflict. The Queen and Lady Cersei spent most of the time avoiding each other. Robb had said that his mother tried to bridge the gap between them, but it was irreparable. “Something about a dragon,” he said in confusion as he shrugged his shoulders.

Joff and Orys, though, loathed each other. Jon had never seen his cousin act this way, in his life. 

“Easy, Orys, easy,” he said as he approached the angry boy. His blue eyes held a fire in them as his breaths came quick and ragged. “He’s not worth it,” he added. 

“What was that, bastard?” Joffrey screamed from behind him. “Were you talking about me, bastard?”

Rage rushed through Jon as he turned to face the little shit. Joffrey Baratheon was staring at him, his green eyes wide with anger and his curly blond hair undone. He looked a simpering fool. 

“And what would you do if he had mentioned, you, Joff,” Orys spat back at him. 

“I’m a Prince of the realm, no bastard can speak to me or of me that way! I want his tongue!” the boy impotently raged.

“There’s only one Prince here,” Jon remarked. “And it’s not the son of Lord Stannis, is it, Robb?”

That only made Joffrey Baratheon angrier and spittle flew from his pouty red lips. 

“Ha!” Jon heard Robb laugh as he moved next to him in solidarity and protection. “How about you settle this as men? Grab a tourney sword and let’s see who the better man is. Let the gods judge.”

Jon had seen Joffrey fight these past few days. The boy had skill, but he was confident he could knock him on his preening ass. For the first time, he saw fear flash across Joffrey’s face. 

“Bastards can’t beat true born children, you unwashed moron,” he sneered at Robb.

“This one can,” Jon declared as he stepped towards Joffrey. 

“That so?”

Ser Jaime strode towards Jon with a sly smile on his face and two blunted tourney swords in his hands. He was without armor, wearing only a velvet doublet in crimson and gold, his trousers a red leather. “Care to test that theory of yours, boy?”

“Careful,” Orys said as he glared at the Kingslayer, “no harm is to come to him, Ser Jaime.”

He placed his hands to his chest in mock outrage. “My Prince do you think so lowly of me?”

“Go ahead, Jon,” his cousin said. “He’s gonna beat you like he beats everyone, but the Kingslayer is a true test of a man’s skill.”

Jon picked up the blade and spun it in his right arm, testing the weight. He also spun his left arm a few times, trying to prevent the inevitable numbing from happening. Then he turned to his opponent. 

“Jon Snow is a skilled lad,” he heard Ser Barristan tell his Kingsguard brother. “He will not disappoint.”

A sense of pride filled him as he clashed blades with Ser Jaime. That, however, was quickly doused. Jon knew almost immediately that he was well overmatched. Ser Jaime was fast and strong and _everywhere_. He was as good as Ser Barristan, if not better. 

“You’re not half bad, bastard,” the Kingslayer remarked wile languidly blocking his strikes. “It just,” Ser Jaime started and then paused for what he could only imagine was dramatic effect, “ _Dawned_ on me. Where I’ve seen skill like that before. You’re quite good with that _sword_ , boy. Best match I’ve had all _morning_ in fact. 

Jon knew he was being mocked, teased. But he used it to his advantage. While the Kingslayer droned on laconically, Jon ignored him and set his trap. Pretending to be tired by his movements, he brought Ser Jaime closer to him and then he sprung it. Quickly, he parried a lazy swing and got under the knight’s reach, using the flat side of his dull blade to smack the Kingslayer on his left thigh, before rolling and smacking his right calf. 

The courtyard exploded in tittering as Ser Jaime groaned, though Jon was sure it wasn’t pain. Before he could even react, the Kingslayer had turned to him and in a matter of five moves, Jon was on his arse with the dull end of a blade against his neck.

“I yield,” he said to the Kingslayer, who waited a beat before extending his hand. “Not bad, bastard,” he muttered. “Though not the skill I was expecting.”

“No,” Ser Barristan said as he came to stand next to Jon. “His skill is unique.”

“It is?” the Kingslayer asked as he turned his back. “Seemed familiar to me, Ser Barristan.”

_______________________

“Father told us you’d be in here, Jon,” Sansa said, breaking Jon from his reverie. He knelt in front of the ancient weirwood that stood sentinel in the Winterfell godswood. The red sap that dripped down its face seemed especially weepy today, for some reason. 

“Aye, it’s quiet here. Unlike the rest of this castle. It’s too crowded,” he said rising to greet his sister.

“I like the bustle,” Sansa responded. “I can’t wait to get to the Capitol. Aunt Lyanna has promised to show me all the sights. The Dragonpit, the Sept of Baelor, it’ll be like out of a song,” she sighed, dramatically.

He felt himself flinch at her excitement. Despite not really wanting to go to King’s Landing, Jon still hated that he hadn’t even been asked to head south. 

Sensing his hestiance, Sansa hurriedly tried to cover her tracks. “Oh but I’m sure you’ll have loads of fun here in Winterfell. My cousin Robert is going to be fostered here. That is if Aunt Lysa will allow it. She’s been in a foul mood at the prospect of leaving him here.”

Jon didn’t have the heart to tell his sister that her Aunt Lysa was a fool and her son Robert a sickly thing likely to wither away here in the harsh north, so he held his tongue on that matter. “Father sent for me?”

“And Orys,” she said as she nodded. “Family meeting in the crypts.”

“Then let us not disappoint our father any more than we already have.”

They strode together out of the godswood and into the castle. It wasn’t long before they found Orys, in the forge, arguing with Mikken over the sharpness of his blade. 

The three of them then left the forge, headed towards the crypts, idly chattering about the move to the capitol. Jon noticed the way that Sansa and Orys seemed to be drawn to one another. Their shoulder and arms and hands bumped into each other constantly. 

Eventually they made it to the crypts and started walking down the stairs, the cool air rising up to greet them. When mixed with the warm air from the yard, a slight fog enveloped them, causing them to slow their descent. Sansa reaches out and grabbed Orys’ arm in fear. 

“I’ve got you, Sansa,” he said softly. 

Through the mist, they made it to their family, who were waiting impatiently. Robb was sitting up against their Uncle Brandon’s plinth, while Arya and Lyarra were in the empty space next to it, sticks in hand, play fighting. Queen Lyanna was knelt in front of their grandfather’s statue, in prayer. 

“Girls,” Lord Eddard said as he stepped into the empty space, his arms crossed, “they’re here. Enough.” 

The pair dropped the sticks and came to the rest of the family. The Queen turned from her father’s statue and stood, her face filled with emotions. Lord Eddard addressed his family. 

“You’re all here. Good. All of you save Jon are headed South on the morrow. I know that Orys and Lyarra are familiar with the capitol, but things are different now. More dangerous.”

“The Lannister’s are likely behind the attempt on Orys’ life,” the Queen continued. “I’ve tried telling the King that the safest place for you all is here in these walls, but he refuses to see logic. That’s why you’re all headed south. Strength in numbers. You’re a pack. All of you. Bran, too. But he’s too young to understand such matters.” 

A gloom settled over the party. Were his cousins and siblings heading into a trap? Were their lives in peril? 

“And I shall be spending more time in the South, too,” his father said. “I cannot abandon the North, but your mothers and I agree that we need to expand our allies in the South. Robert Arryn is critical to that. He and Bran will be as brothers. Like Robb and Orys and Jon. It will fall to you, Jon, to help guide them as Northmen in my absence.”

“Father,” Jon started, meekly, “I’m not sure the Lady Catelyn would like…”

“She has agreed with me, son,” Lord Eddard said, in his Lord’s voice, the one that suffered no arguments against it. Jon swallowed his objections and nodded. “The boy is sickly and weak. But he will grow. And it is important that he grow strong. If not in body, then in spirit.”

“This will be the last time we are all here, together, as a pack for a long time. Years, if ever,” the Queen said with unshed tears in her eyes. 

“You are summer children. Green and untested. But us Starks know the truth of this world. When the cold winds rise, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Jon felt the Queen’s eyes on him as his father spoke. 

“This is your family, all of you. This is your legacy. My father rode south and never came back. Same with my brother. The Queen almost didn’t make it back, either.”

Jon had never seen his father or aunt this serious. Neither, it seemed had the rest of their children. A shocked sense of quiet seemed to take hold of all of them. 

From behind them, Rickard and Brandon Stark stared back with their grey eyes. Jon never felt comfortable down here, amongst the dead Starks. An imposter, a Snow, surrounded by Starks. 

“What are our words?” Lyanna Stark asked them all, her grey eyes squinting hard. 

“Winter is coming,” they said, as one. 

—————————————-

 

“Where’s the bastard?!” King Robert bellowed into the hall, which silenced around him. “Jon Snow, where is he?!”

In an instant every eye in the room turned to him and he felt himself shudder beneath their collective gaze. 

Slowly he rose from the bench and began taking the long walk to the front of the hall. “I’m here, your Grace,” he said and winced internally at how small and childish his voice sounded. 

“Come here,” the King ordered, pointing to a spot in front of him. Jon scurried over and got on one knee, unsure as to the King’s intentions. He could see his father holding the Queen’s hand in his, both looking on with worry across their face. That only made him even more nervous, his breathing becoming ragged. King Robert scanned the hall for someone until he saw what he wanted and smiled. 

“Kingslayer! Get your ass over here! I need you!!”

Ser Jaime sauntered over, resplendent in his golden armor and bowed slightly to the king, who reached over and pulled the Kingsguard’s sword from its ruby encrusted scabbard. 

“The blade that killed the Mad King!” Robert Baratheon exclaimed as he held the golden sword high. “That ended the tyranny of the dragons!”

Tittering broke out amongst the hall and people scrambled behind Jon to get a better look at the blade, the king and the bastard. But Jon Snow kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the king’s wine sodden boots. 

The King placed the sword down on the ground, tip first, mere inches from Jon’s nose. He could see his own reflection in the glimmering gold, nervous grey eyes looking down, silently pleading with the gods to be merciful. Jon found himself unable to look the King in his blue eyes. 

“You’re a bastard.” The King spat. “But not the youngest bastard this has happened to. He was a dragon, sadly. Let them speak of you from now on rather than that dragonspawn.”

Robert Baratheon lifted the blade off the ground, the tip settling under Jon’s chin. Gently, the King pushed the sword and Jon’s head up towards him. 

“Look at me, boy.” 

When he did, Jon saw his eyes were shining with glee. The King placed the golden blade on his right shoulder. 

“Jon Snow of House Stark. In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave…” he started and a great gasp rushed through the hall, followed by loud murmuring. The king ignored it and placed the blade on his left shoulder. 

“...in the name of the Father I charge you to be just…”

A sense of numbness, of disbelief at what was happening, took hold of Jon Snow. He was being knighted. By the King. A boy of twelve. In front of dozens of lords and ladies and his entire family. He glanced towards the dais and saw his father’s eyes wide with shock. The sword was back on his right shoulder, the king’s voice in his ears. 

“...in the name of the Mother I charge you to protect all women…”

 _Mother_. The word echoed in his mind. He wondered what his mother would feel at this. Would she be proud of him? Jon Snow hoped so. The blade was on his left shoulder, again. He looked back to the main table.

Up on it, the Queen was beaming with something like pride, tears in her eyes, her hand covering her mouth in shock. It filled him with warmth. 

The rest of his family looked on in awe at what was unfolding in front of them. Deep down, a voice, small and sad, told him that he wasn’t worthy of this honor. He was a bastard. Less than them. 

The King finished his words and placed the golden sword on his right shoulder again. 

“Will you hold to these vows and do such other tasks that are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

 _I will prove myself worthy_ , Jon promised his gods, himself. 

“I swear it, your Grace,” he said loudly, pushing through the emotions in his voice. The King placed the golden blade on his left shoulder. 

“Then rise, Ser Jon Snow, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The King extended a hand and helped Jon to his wobbly feet. He slapped him hard on the back and stepped away towards the table. 

The hall was still in shock and silence greeted him as he stood there, gently shaking with nerves. He felt a small boy, naked and shivering, in front of everyone. 

Even the flames from the torches and hearths seemed to have stopped their dancing, frozen by what happened. 

Then he heard a voice behind him, breaking the seemingly endless silence: 

“To my brave cousin, Ser Jon Snow!” Orys yelled. 

When he turned to face him, Orys was standing with a chalice in his hands, raised high, his face beaming with pride. 

“To Ser Jon Snow, my honorable brother!” Robb shouted next to Orys as he stood and lifted his goblet and matched their cousin’s bright smile. 

“To Ser Jon Snow,” a man behind him declared forcefully. He twisted himself to find the source of the words was none other than Ser Barristan the Bold himself, cup held high.

“To my son,” Lord Eddard Stark said in a low voice, and Jon spun back towards him to see his father on his feet, with his chalice raised, a tight smile on his face. “Ser Jon Snow.” 

Next to him Lady Stark’s face was as white as bone, a look of disbelief painted across it as she rose. On the other side of his father, Queen Lyanna’s mouth was smiling, but her grey eyes held worry as she lifted her goblet. 

“To Ser Jon Snow!” the call went out across the hall as everyone stood and raised their drinks. 

The King was chuckling from in front of the dais with his golden chalice raised high. Behind him, the Lannisters were standing with their drinks in hand, but they all matched Lord Stannis’ harsh glare, their mouths held tight.

“To Ser Jon Snow!” the gathered shouted again. 

His siblings and cousins, all of them shone brightly with happiness. Arya and Lyarra banged the table with their hands in glee, Sansa smiled slightly as she raised her goblet, little Bran stood proud on his chair with his small cup raised. Theon Greyjoy glared at him with absolute jealousy, while next to him, his Uncle Benjen laughed gloriously as ale spilled from his tankard as he held it high. Jon looked at the Queen one last time and she nodded at him as she clapped, her face a storm of emotions.

“To Ser Jon Snow!” they all loudly chanted a third time, the whole hall looking at _him_ , cheering _him_ , honoring _him_.

With tears in his eyes and laughter on his lips, Jon Snow smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon got knighted! Robert Baratheon unkowingly knighted the son of his wife and Rhaegar Targaryen with the sword used to kill that boy's paternal grandfather. I just couldn't resist it.
> 
> Nor could I resist taking a shot at season 8, because fuck that shit.
> 
> Me, an actual moron: "I had to do something nice for Jon, for ONCE, because this can't be ALL doom and gloom."
> 
> You, an intellectual: "I see through your nonsense. You're luring us into a false sense of security because the next Jon chapter(s) is him at 17 when he finds out the truth and everything turns to absolute shit before it hits the fan. You're not fooling me."
> 
> Me, an actual moron: "Pssh. That's. That's not....."  
> *knocks glass of water off table, like the Chappelle's Show sketch and runs from room*
> 
> The next chapter is DANY II, where the Mother of Dragons learns some secrets, “sees” a long lost relative and meets the Bastard of Winterfell.


	7. DANY II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany learns some secrets and meets some long lost family members.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wound up being much more expository than I had planned. Just a mess. I want to keep some of the surprises but had to give you guys something in this chapter. I hope it’s enough to keep you sated. See you on the back end.

As the sun rose over the Red Waste, the desert sand reflected its rays, heating the very air around them. By the time her bloodriders had fashioned beds to carry her mother and Jon Snow back into Vaes Tolorro, the heat was almost overwhelming. 

Rakharo and Aggo carried her mother back to their house while Ser Jorah and Jhogo took Jon Snow to the same manse. Both were unconscious as Dany trailed after, making sure the menagerie of animals she had come into care of was following her into the city. 

Aegys had found his perch on her shoulder, while Viserion flapped and yelped as he trailed after her mother, before Dany scooped the cream dragon in her arms. Rhaegal climbed the wolf, the pair of them quiet sentinels as they followed the unconscious body of Jon Snow through the streets of Vaes Tolorro. 

_”This is Jon Snow, the bastard son of Eddard Stark,”_ her old bear had said before her mother had claimed the boy wasn’t and fainted at her feet. Rhaella Targaryen had stared unblinkingly as her son caught fire and burned alive, screaming and wailing as he died. What was it about this Jon Snow that caused her mother to collapse? 

When back in their manse, under the cool shade and on a bed, her mother began to stir. “Rhaegar,” she muttered. “Wrong,” she added as her head jerked slightly from side to side. Dany watched as Irri placed a cool cloth on her brow, trying to calm her mother’s restlessness. 

On the far side of the room, Jon Snow lay still on the pile of furs that had become his sick bed. Jhiqui and Doreah worked to free the man from his tattered clothes, under the watchful gaze of the white wolf and Rhaegal. Her green dragon’s affections for this stranger was somehow disquieting, curious and charming all at once. 

“He is handsome,” Doreah whispered to Jhiqui, as her hand stroked across the man’s face. Irri nodded as she responded, “He has a warrior’s build. That scar on his temple means this one has seen battle.” 

Anger began bubbling inside Dany at her handmaiden’s babbling. Her chastisement of them was swallowed, though, when Jon Snow was free of his rags and lay naked before them. Dany gulped. 

“A warrior’s body, yes,” Irri agreed as she threw his rags in the corner where his sword rested. “I wonder if that’s a warrior’s cock, too?” Doreah asked, she and Irri giggling like little children, as her hand ran down Jon Snow’s chest to his abs. The anger inside Dany came roaring back, even more pronounced. This was a man, not a piece of meat. 

“Enough,” Dany spat, her handmaidens turning at the same time, eyes wide at seeing her standing there. “If you can not tend to this man without embarrassing yourself and me in the process, then I will go find some old crone to do the job for you.”

Cowed, they bent their heads in a sign of acceptance, which made Dany feel even more uncomfortable. Thankfully, Ser Jorah entered the room at that moment, freeing Dany from her wandering thoughts. 

“You called for me, Khalessi?” he asked, his voice gruffer than normal. Dany noted the way his eyes drifted towards the sword in the corner. 

“You recognize that blade?” she asked him. 

Ser Jorah strode slowly towards the blade, looking at the wolf and dragon that had threatened him earlier, as if he needed their permission to approach it. For a moment the pair of animals stared at him, two pairs of eyes, bronze and red, hard and judgemental, before Rhaegal chirped and they turned back to Jon Snow. 

“I’ve never seen it before, Khaleesi, no one alive has, really. But it is perhaps the most famous sword in the world, if I am correct.” He lifted the blade, still sheathed in its scabbard, in his hands, the sun reflecting off the giant ruby on its pommel, a red light basking the room in its glow. 

When he unsheathed the sword from the plain scabbard, Dany could swear it sounded like a lover’s whisper, sweet and powerful. She and Ser Jorah gasped upon seeing the blade in its glory. Smoky grey, with what seemed to be ancient Valyrian runes running down its fuller. To Dany’s untrained eye, it looked sharp as any sword she had ever seen. 

“Blackfyre, Princess,” Ser Jorah said with awe in his voice. “The sword of the Dragon Kings.” Her old bear’s eyes were full of emotion when they found her again. An ancient relic of House Targaryen, thought lost to time, somehow found its way back to the last living members of that house? That was the stuff of songs. 

If there was one thing in life that Daenerys Targaryen had learned, through many tears, both shed and unshed, it was that songs were lies. 

“And bastards, too,” she noted as she turned towards Jon Snow, who was being tended to in a more _suitable_ manner by Irri and Doreah. “Yes,” her old bear agreed, looking with her towards Ned Stark’s bastard son. 

“Tell me all you know of this Jon Snow,” she demanded. 

With a sigh, Ser Jorah began. 

“I don’t know much, Khaleesi. Ned Stark brought him back from the war. Claimed him as his bastard son, though would speak nothing of the mother. Rumors spread throughout the realm as to who the mother was, most suspecting the Lady Ashara Dayne as the woman.”

“Dayne?” Dany interrupted, “As in Ser Arthur Dayne, of my father’s Kingsguard?”

“Aye. The Sword of the Morning was Lady Ashara’s brother. Ned Stark killed him at the Tower of Joy, freeing his sister, Queen Lyanna from captivity. Then they rode to Starfall where soon after departing Ashara Dayne threw herself from a tall tower. When they arrived in the capitol, Ned Stark had his bastard, the Queen and the body of the dead babe Lyanna Stark birthed, sired by your brother Rhaegar, If rumors are to be believed.”

The Tower of Joy was a story she had heard before. Her restlessness grew almost unbearable. “I know that. What of this man?”

“I know he grew up in Winterfell, surrounded by his siblings and the Queen’s children with the Usurper. The Lady Stark loathed Jon Snow, everyone knew. Queen Lyanna, however, was quite fond of him, doting on him far more than any Queen had ever doted on a bastard before. I know this man saved his cousin, the Crown Prince Orys from the blades of half a dozen sellswords. I was there in the Great Hall of Winterfell, when at the age of only twelve, the Usurper had knighted this bastard in front of half the bloody realm. Soon after Lord Stark chased me from the North.”

“He was knighted at the age of twelve? Isn’t that too young?”

“Almost certainly. But whispered in the hall that night was that King Robert wanted to anger House Lannister and his brother Lord Stannis. The Lady Cersei had long wanted the King to knight her son, Joffrey, but the Usurper had refused at every chance. Instead he knighted a Stark bastard. Rumor was Lord Stannis resigned his position as Master of Laws soon after and went back to Dragonstone to brood.”

“This Jon Snow has had an interesting life, it would seem,” she noted, as she clasped her hands in front of her, taking stock of him. He was undoubtedly comely as he laid in front of them, only a thin sheet to cover his groin and legs. His face was long, framed by thick and curly brown hair. Long, pretty lashes fluttered in his sleep, a sharp nose and even sharper cheekbones leading to his pouty lips. The scar on his face stretched from his temple to his cheek, curving around his eye, making him look even more infuriatingly handsome. 

But what intrigued Daenerys the most were his dark grey eyes. She had glimpsed them only once, but it somehow wasn’t enough to her liking. 

“This ring on his finger, the red dragon of House Targaryen, but quartered, do you know of it, Ser Jorah?” 

Her old bear looked at her and shook his head. “No Khaleesi, I don’t know whose ring that is. It could be a fake, some forgery made by a jeweler in the free cities. But if it’s real, I don’t know whose ring it is.”

“It’s mine,” her mother said as they turned to see her awake and pushed up on her arms. “The ring, Ser Jorah, is mine.”

——————————————

The waters of the bath were cool and clean as Dany lounged in them, letting them refresh her heated skin. Across from her, Queen Rhaella did the same, moving her arms in a languid manner. Her mother had promised to tell her everything, but Dany had insisted they bathe first. She was worried that the stress of telling the tale would cause her to faint again. 

“Stop staring at me like that, Dany,” she said. “I’m not made of straw, I won’t come apart at the merest hint of a breeze.”

Daenerys scoffed at that and dunked her head under the water. When she surfaced, she replied, “You fainted at the sight of that man, that _Jon Snow._ She felt a blush creep up her neck to her cheeks and noted her mother’s sly smile in response. Again Dany lowered her head into the water, this time huffing loudly. 

“Jon Snow. I do not think that is his name,” her mother said, when Dany surfaced. “Rhaegar was sure he would be a girl. They sent word to me on Dragonstone that the girl with Lyanna died. But those Starks. Those bloody Starks. This will truly ruin Mopatis’ plans, that fool. Good.”

Rhaella Targaryen laughed. A loud and chortling laugh, complete with a distinctly un-ladylike snort at the end. Dany found herself giggling with her mother, too, unsure when the woman had laughed last, even if the true reason for their mirth was lost on her. 

“They hid him, my love. This _Jon Snow_. Hid him from everyone. The Usurper, especially. I spent many a night cursing Lyanna Stark and what she and Rhaegar did. Yes, your father was mad. But they were the spark. And for what?”

Dany found herself leaning forward, totally enraptured at her mother’s words. 

“The ring was mine. I was given it by my grandfather. King Aegon V. He was given the ring by his father, King Maekar I, whose personal sigil was the red dragon, quartered. He gave it to Aegon as a means of protection. So that the hidden dragon could reveal himself if ever in trouble, whilst he roamed the countryside with Ser Duncan the Tall. Little Egg kept the ring in his boot, hidden. Grandpapa gave it to me just before Summerhall, when I was pregnant with Rhaegar. ‘To crown someone is to kill them,’ Aegon V used to tell me. I think that’s why he gave me a ring. And I gave it to Rhaegar on his sixteenth name day. When last I saw him, as he rode off for the Trident, he said he left the ring with Lyanna Stark and their unborn child.”

“So Rhaegar had a bastard child with Lyanna Stark?” 

Her mother shook her head, sadly. “No, love. They were married in sight of the old gods, at least according to your brother. He took her for a second wife…” At Dany’s withering look, Rhaella lifted her arms from the water, in a placating manner. 

“I know, I know, I gave him quite a clout in the ear when I had heard his nonsense. Your brother was obsessed with some absurd prophecy about a reborn ancient hero. He claimed he needed a third child to fulfill it and save the world.” 

Her mother’s tone was full of doubt and Dany could sense the slight scorn at her eldest son buried somewhere in her. 

“But that was just what he told himself. A mother knows. He and Elia liked each other, but held no true passion for each other. Rhaegar loved Lyanna. I could see it in his face when he said her name. ‘ _This Lyanna Stark, mother,_ ’ he would say. I felt for Elia, but if truth be told, she never wanted to be Rhaegar’s wife. You and I know what it’s like to be forced to marry against our will. Elia was no different. Rhaegar was much kinder than our husbands, but she still was in a place she didn’t want to be. She belonged in Dorne, with her family. And the man who truly loved her, yet could not be with her. But she died before Rhaegar could give that to her. As did he. So did the man she loved. And the precious children.”

Tears filled her mother’s eyes and fell down her cheeks at the mention of Rhaenys and Aegon. Whenever she spoke of them, Rhaella Targaryen would become bereft. Of all the things her family had lost, it was the two little grandchildren that haunted her mother the most. 

“We will avenge them,” Dany swore. “All of them.”

“The gods are cruel cunts,” her mother spat, her face hard, mouth tight. “All my life they’ve taken and taken and taken from me. My family at Summerhall, my freedom, my brother’s sanity, all my babies, two sons, three grandchildren, a good-daughter and a crown.”

She had included Rhaego in the count. Dany’s heart broke at the thought, yet it made her love her mother all the fiercer. 

“But ever since you stepped into the pyre, they’ve started giving things back. Our freedom, three little dragons and now, a grandson. I can see him in that young man; Rhaegar. In the shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose. The little point on the top of his ears. Those two dimples next to his mouth when he grimaced. A mother knows, Dany.”

Rhaella Targaryen stood from the bath, water dripping down her body, looking refreshed, looking _strong_. “The ring once showed the world that the boy wearing it was a hidden Targaryen. It has once more. His mother gave him the ring. She hid him from the world. But the dragon will be known, Rhaegal’s affections towards him prove that. Jon Snow is the true born son of your brother Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. A legitimate Targaryen.”

————————————————

Her mother stepped from the bath and robed herself, before striding from the room and back towards their manse. Dany sat in the pool a while longer, absorbing the info her mother had dumped on her and certain that there was more she was withholding. 

But her thoughts were lost when she heard something softly padding from behind her. Turning, she found the white direwolf staring at her, panting heavily in the heat. 

Dany rested her hands and chin on the lip of the pool and waited for the animal to come over. Eventually, it did, laying down next to the bath. 

There was something about this wolf. Something that calmed her, made her feel safe, despite the eerie lack of sound it made. 

“You’re filthy,” she noted as she pushed off the edge and lifted herself out of the water. The wolf’s red eyes stared knowingly at her as she clothed herself in her robe. “In,” she commanded the wolf, pointing towards the pool. 

It had been a few hours since the wolf arrived and not once had the animal made even a sound. A mute albino, it seemed, but Dany knew it was whining at the turn of events. 

“I said, in,” she said in a voice that brokered no arguing. Begrudgingly, the wolf softly padded its way to the edge of the pool, sniffing at the water and testing it with an outstretched paw. 

“Am I gonna have to push—“ her question was cut off with a loud splash as the large wolf jumped into the pool. 

A ripple of waves splashed against the sides of the pool, as the wolf surfaced from under the water. Dany laughed at its antics, treading water softly and drinking it at the same time. 

The wolf came to her and allowed Dany to wash its coat with soap, grimacing as her hands scrubbed its fur. What was once clear water turned dark brown, quickly. “Filthy, weren’t you? Just how long were you and Jon Snow wandering the desert?” 

It offered no response, just leaped from the dirty pool and shook its white coat from side to side, sending water flying about the stone room. Silently, it padded from the room into the manse. Dany followed suit soon after, making her way back to her room where her handmaidens helped comb her hair. It was still short, only a few moons since she stepped into the pyre, but it was long enough to start getting tangled if not tended to. 

With her mother tending to a still unconscious Jon Snow, she had mentioned something about a bath for him, Dany tended to her people and her new found city. Walking from her manse, she stopped and checked on her small khalasar as they went about their day. Women were gathered around wells, filling buckets with water chattering with each other as the men walked around them, carrying stones and wood around. 

They had been in the city barely a fortnight and already it had come alive with action. Rakharo followed her as she walked the streets, nominally as protection, but in truth to jape with the people she came across. 

These people were _hers_. She had freed them before stepping into the pyre and those that had remained followed her through the Red Waste at their own peril because they saw her emerge from the fire with three dragons. Daenerys owed it to them to see they were never harmed. 

A bright sun set behind her as she strolled the city. Jhiqui appeared in front of her, carrying a pile of laundry. Hagga, an old crone who had to be carried into the city on the verge of death, brought her to the large garden Dany had ordered planted on her first day. The crops had already started to grow, little sprouts of green poking up through the soil. 

“In two or so moons, they will be ready. Peppers and squash and leafy greens and more.” 

She smiled and kissed Hagga’s cheek before moving on. Kholo, an old man found her in front of a grove of peach and fig trees. “No one steals any, Khaleesi,” he said, “at the rate we eat them will be a year or so before all of them are gone.”

“Good,” Dany responded as the old man kissed her hand. 

“Khaleesi has led us to safety. The mother of dragons, protects her people.”

“I try,” she said as she felt tears in her eyes. Feeling her emotions bubbling inside her, Dany stepped away from the old man, towards where Kovarro had herded all the birds he could into a makeshift birdhouse. 

It was the largest building still standing in Vaes Tolorro, a ceiling that still stood, twenty feet tall. Her blood riders had moved all the nests they could find in it while they also placed crude nets over the windows and doors. 

The birds were well fed, as the one thing her khalasar had plenty of was seeds. Drogo meant to carry them with the rest of his plunder from Lhazar down to Slaver’s Bay to sell. When he died, his blood riders deemed the seeds of no value. Her own khalasar had wanted her to drop the seeds in the Red Waste, believing them useless. As she worked her hand through a barrel of seed, letting them flow in and around her fingers, Dany meant to prove them wrong. 

_From these seeds, my kingdom will sprout._

————————————

She found herself at the base of a huge wall of ice, staring up at it. Hundreds of feet high, the wall stretched out in front of her as far as the eye could see. A gate underneath it opened wide and Daenerys stepped through it, passing through darkness before emerging into the light of a frozen wasteland. 

“The old magics are back, Daenerys Stormborn,” an ethereal voice whispered from behind her. When she turned, there was a woman standing tall, her hands folded in front of her. A red lacquered mask covered the woman’s face, two slits where the eyes would show glowed as white as starlight. 

“You have brought them back, Khalessi. The glass candles are burning. Your children will grow and the greed of the world will grow with them. Fire is power and dragons are fire made flesh. Trust none of them. Trust your dragons to know friend from foe. Family from false.”

Dany felt her anger rise. “Who are you? Where am I? Answer me.” 

The woman laughed instead. “He did warn me about dancing with dragons.” 

When she went to step towards the mysterious woman, Dany found the distance between them never changed. Yet the woman never moved. 

“Who I am is irrelevant. You may call me Quaite of the Shadow,” she whispered to her. 

“The Shadow? You mean Asshai?”

“Yes,” the woman answered. “And the Shadow Lands beyond it.”

The world grew dark and sped around her before settling into pitch blackness. After a moment, the sun broke through directly above her, weak and pale. She was in a valley, black and oily rocks around her, a hundred feet high. In front of her was a giant double door built into the end of the floor of the gulch. Fifty feet tall, at least, it was white as bone and sealed shut. A stark contrast to the dark land surrounding it, the door glowed bright, like the moon in the night sky. 

Behind her a growling came and she scampered out of the way of a great black beast running towards her. Seeming to not notice her, it opened its huge black wings and reared in front of the door, screeching loudly. The roar echoed through the gorge, bringing all manner of smaller, yet equally terrifying, monsters scurrying towards the beast. As she squinted to see clearer in the darkness, Dany noticed some of these things had multiple eyes or black feathers or giant pincers or rows and rows of sharp teeth. 

From the top of the ravine, to its floor, these smaller creatures hissed and moaned as they scampered down the sides of the ravine, towards the giant beast, who stared back at them with familiar eyes, red as an inferno. 

“Dracarys,” a voice she recognized sang out unseen from high atop the massive creature and it spat fire, black and red, at the large door. The monsters came to a sudden halt, fell to the floor and screamed in pain. Their agonized screeches were so loud that Dany covered her ears. Under the intense heat, the white door turned red and melted, slowly. When it was naught but a puddle, the beast trudged on, crossing the precipice into the darkness. 

“To touch the light, you must pass through the shadow.”

The world sped by again, until she suddenly found herself in the middle of a blizzard. Wind and snow and ice whipped around her, almost blinding her. It was hard to see the tip of her nose, let alone the hand she held out beyond it. 

Despite the storm that raged around her, Dany wasn’t cold or numb. She felt a fire within that warmed her. 

She screamed as loud as she could. 

“Stop speaking riddles, woman! Speak plainly!”

The storm ended as suddenly as it came, the ice and snow falling down to the ground, and she found herself back in the frozen wasteland. Between her and the woman was an ice sculpture a few feet tall. It was as blue as a sapphire and shiny, yet strangely no light reflected off of it. To Dany, it looked like a giant chalice of sorts. 

“Your destiny. The altar. What you do to it, it does to the other. You must be strong, Daenerys the Stormborn. You must be brave, Daenerys the Unburnt. You must hold fast, Daenerys the Mother of Dragons. You must bear the pain, Daenerys the Breaker of Chains. You must not look away, Daenerys the Shadowbinder. You must shoulder it all, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, first and last of your name.”

Riddles and more riddles, she thought as the anger churned in her. Moving forward towards the woman proved useless, the distance between them never closed. So Daenerys took a step back. Then another and another. When she turned quickly, the shadowbinder was right in front of her. 

She reached out and grabbed the mask in both her hands, the red lacquer turning to ash under her fingers. The eyes behind it shone bright before dimming, revealing the face of the woman. Old and haggard, skin drooping and sallow, but her mismatched eyes, one blue and one green, sparkled with a hint of mischief. 

The old crone smiled a toothless smile at her. 

“We might yet have a chance, Daenerys Targaryen. We might yet.”

Dany blinked and she was back laying on her bed in Vaes Tolorro, Quiathe in front of her, the old woman standing at her feet, smiling softly. When she blinked again, the shadowbinder was gone, leaving Dany alone in her room. 

Shivering in the weak light of the predawn hours, she stood, clumsily and reached for a shawl to wrap around her. Aegys slept curled against a pillow next to her head. Dany’s feet took her out of her room, past her mother’s bed. Rhaella Targaryen was fast asleep, Viserion snuggled with her. 

The sight warmed her heart.

Down the hall she walked until the next room opened in front of her. In it was Jon Snow, sleeping in his pile of furs. Watching were Rhaegal and the white wolf, both also asleep. As she entered the room, the pair stirred before calming at seeing the intruder was only her. The wolf stretched and stood, lowering its head and allowing Rhaegal to find its perch atop it, before slowly trotting from the room, leaving her alone with her nephew. 

Dany sat in a chair at the end of his bed. She looked to Jon Snow. He slept curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around him in a tight hug. It was oddly endearing. Her mother once told her that you could learn a lot about a person based on how they slept. 

She guessed that this Jon Snow had spent much of his childhood alone, with only himself as a comfort. The thought made her sad yet somehow less lonely. 

As she pondered this, he stirred, rolling over into his back, blinking a few times as the weak rays of dawn’s first light shone in his face. Dany stood in excitement and stepped towards him. 

“Are you another dream?” he asked, groggily. 

———————————-

After rousing Rhaella from her sleep, she and Dany rushed back to Jon’s room to find him awake and sitting up. When he spotted the both of them hurrying into his room, his grey eyes went wide. 

“Are you okay?” her mother asked him, kindly, placing a hand to his forehead. “Your fever seems to have subsided.”

“Water,” he croaked out, “please, your graces.”

At her mother’s look of amusement, Dany took a waterskin from the table beside him and placed it at Jon Snow’s dry lips. He took it and drank down, greedily. 

“Easy, easy,” her mother said kindly. “Slowly. That’s it.” 

After a moment, the skin was empty. Jon Snow took a deep breath and sagged back against the pillows. “Thank you, your graces.”

“Is that all we are to you?” Dany asked with a raised eyebrow.

His response was swallowed by a moan of anguish that escaped his lips as his eyes went to the door. “Mormont,” he seethed. “Slaver scum!”

They turned to see Ser Jorah Mormont in the door frame, red faced and angry, arms crossed and a deep scowl on his face. “Bastard of Winterfell, you’re far from home. Did your noble father send you here to take my head?” 

Jon snorted at that, “No. But I’ll enjoy taking it from you all the same.” With that he pushed off the bed, wobbly and weak. Ser Jorah reached for his blade at the same time. 

“Enough!” Dany yelled. “Leave us, Ser Jorah.” At his choked reply, Dany finished, “the next time you fail to follow an order when either I or my mother give it, you will find yourself walking in the Red Waste like Ser Jon Snow.”

With a bow of his head, Mormont left the room, turning on his heels and huffing out the door. 

When the three of them were alone, Dany released an irritated breath. Her mother went to a side of Jon Snow’s bed and sat next to him. Dany stayed back, though, hands clasped in front of her. 

“Who are you?” she asked him. 

Jon Snow raked his fingers down his face, chuckingly bitterly. “I don’t know, your Grace,” he muttered. 

“You are the true born son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and the Lady Lyanna Stark.” With her mother looking at the man, she couldn’t see her face. But Jon Snow’s eyes grew watery at the statement and he nodded his agreement. 

Rhaella Targaryen seized the man’s face in her hands, kissing his brow fiercely. “My lovely boy,” she whispered and Dany was sure her mother was crying. Jon Snow tried to keep his emotions under control, but when her mother seized him in a hug, he broke and started sobbing. 

After a moment, Daenerys could no longer resist the pull of her family, so she sat down opposite her mother and waited patiently for the pair to separate, tears forming in her eyes. 

They did pull apart, Jon Snow sniffling and wiping at his nose with a stray finger, and Dany introduced herself. 

“My name is Daenerys,” she said as she extended a hand. “You can call me Dany.”

He took her hand in his and shook hers softly. 

“How did you find us?” her mother asked. 

“I followed the comet, your Grace. A familiar voice in a dream told me to follow it. My companion in Qarth thought me mad, but I knew that if I followed the comet, I’d find you.”

“We followed the bleeding star through the Red Waste, too. It led us here as well.” Dany said.

He nodded at that. 

“Ser Jorah says your name is Jon Snow?” her mother was onto the next question before Dany could blink. 

“Aye,” he said in a clipped manner. “But that’s not my real name.” He took a deep breath and continued, “the name my mother,” the way he said ‘mother’, harsh and guttural, made Dany shiver, “gave me at my birth was Ae—Aegon Targaryen.”

Dany slid back at his revelation and gasped. Her mother was still as a stone statue. Jon held his hands up, palms out in a placating manner. “I didn’t choose it. I know I had...a brother with that name.”

Her mother finally broke her silence. “What better name for a King?” she asked. Jon Snow gaped at her, blinking dumbly. 

“Mother,” she admonished, “perhaps we should ease into this?” The boy had just woken and her mother was already crowning him King. Dany knew she should feel anger at it, her mother usurping her, but she was too numb with shock to feel much of anything. 

“I’ll not fight against my family,” he declared. “Not now. Not ever. Neither them...or you.” 

“The Usurper is not your family,” her mother said in a voice as sharp as Valyrian steel. 

“Robert Baratheon is dead.”

Her mother gasped with her this time. Rhaella Targaryen stood and paced the room. “How? Why? Where did you hear this?”

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his bed. “A trader in Qarth. Said he heard it in Lys. Didn’t know much other than that Robert Baratheon was dead. Something about ‘the stag was eaten by a wolf’,” he said as he shrugged. 

“This changes things. The realm will be in chaos.”

“No, your Grace,” he said as he looked at her mother, “Orys will be king.”

“Tywin Lannister has been plotting to put a Lannister on the Throne since before you were born. His grandson is now Orys’ heir. Your half brother is in danger. There’s nothing that man won’t do to see his family on the Iron Throne.”

Jon frowned, deep and skeptical. “Lord Stannis won’t allow that. He may not like his family, but he will stand besides Orys.”

“Then he will die, too.”

The three of them sat in silence for a moment before a clanging in the corner sent their heads turning. The white wolf padded in and knocked over the sword. 

“Ghost!” Jon said as he held a hand out, “someone bathed you?”

“I did,” Dany said, unable to help the hint of mirth in her voice, “he was filthy.” The wolf was next to them as Jon stroked his head and Dany his flank.

“So your name is Ghost, then?”

Ghost turned his head to her, tongue lolling from his mouth, panting lightly. 

“I like it. It suits you.”

It was then that Rhaegal came flapping in, chirping loudly. At the sight of the green dragon, Jon leaned back against the wall, muttering, “Seven hells, what is that?”

“A dragon,” Dany said plainly as she scooped her child in her arms. “I hatched three dragon eggs in the Dothraki Sea recently. This is Rhaegal. I think he’s yours.” 

When she let go, Rhaegal flew to the top of Ghost’s head and perched, waiting for Jon to move. He did, eventually, sticking a hand out and stroking the dragon’s head. 

“My dragon?” he asked, confusion lining his face. Rhaegal jumped onto Jon’s lap and sat there, nuzzling into him. It made Dany smile. 

“Yes, your dragon. He’s taken quite a liking to you, nephew. I named him for your father, my brother.” At his father’s name, Jon’s gaze grew distant. “There’s two more. Aegys is bonded to me. I named him for your brother and sister, murdered by the Mountain. My other dragon is bonded to my mother. I named him Viserion after my other brother.”

“Viserys? Is he here?” Jon perked up at hearing his name. “I brought him the sword,” he said pointing to the fallen sword in the corner. 

“Blackfyre?” Dany asked. 

“Aye,” he said with reverence in his voice. “I brought it as a gift. I had hoped that the sword could bring about some kind of peace between my blood.”

“Oh, Aegon,” her mother said and Jon recoiled at the name. “Sweet boy. Viserys is dead.”

He slouched at the news. “How?” 

“I killed him,” Dany said with steel in her voice. Jon looked at her like she had gone mad. “He sold me. To a Dothraki khal. For the promise of an army. A Khal who raped me every night. But that wasn’t enough for my brother. I was pregnant with a child. My son,” the tears in her eyes burned and she blinked, furiously, “Rhaego. Viserys had him murdered in my womb. He had made a deal with a witch. He needed my son’s blood to fuel a magic that would bring him his crown. As punishment I latched him to a pyre with three dragon eggs and walked into it. My dragons were born.”

She choked back a sob and turned from him. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a whisper. When she looked back to him, he was a thousand miles away, lost in thought. 

“The sword, Aegon, where did you get it?”

Her mother’s question shook him from his reverie. He looked bashful, then spoke. 

“A cheesemonger in Pentos named Mopatis.”

Dany looked to her mother with eyes wide and anger raging inside her. Rhaella Targaryen, however, wasn’t shocked at all. 

_What other secrets are you keeping, mother?_

“I don’t suppose he just gave it to you, then?”

“No, your Grace,” he admitted, “I stole it from him. I had help. Ghost. He’s the one who found it. When he did, I came up with a plan and executed it. Barely escaped Pentos with the sword, my wolf and my life.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his head, impishly. “I figured it didn’t belong to him, though. It belonged to a Targaryen. A true dragon.”

Her mother laughed brightly at that, her eyes alight with admiration and love. She took his hand in hers and kissed it. “My sweet boy. The sword is yours. _You_ are a true dragon. And you are not to call me or Dany by any absurd honorific. I’m your grandmother. She’s your aunt. Are we clear?”

He nodded. 

“Good. You have given us much to chew over, my dear. But let me say how happy I am that you are here. You’re _here_ with us, your family. The wolves may have sheltered you and raised you and loved you, but you are a dragon. Rest, my love. We shall talk more, later. I’m sure you have questions I can answer. About Rhaegar and your mother. And your siblings. They can wait.”

“How did the wolf, Ghost, how did he help you?”

Dany couldn’t help but ask one more question. 

“Steal the sword, I mean. How can a _wolf_ help a man like that?”

“It’s hard to explain. But I can see in his eyes. In my sleep. Ghost found a half dozen Unsullied guarding a big metal door. It was opened and they paid him no mind as they took some gold out. I saw the sword. It was hanging from the wall. They eventually chased him out, but it drew no alarm. So I decided to take it.”

“That sounds like quite the adventure,” her mother said as she reached out and brushed some of Jon’s hair from his face. “But there’s time for the rest of the story, later. For now I want you to rest. Some broth will help refresh you.”

He nodded as Rhaella stood and walked from the room, leaving Dany alone with her nephew. When his eyes found hers, she noticed the way they widened slightly, how his throat apple bobbled as he swallowed and how he blushed slightly when she smiled at him. 

“Get some rest, nephew. You’re safe here.”

With a glance back at him, Dany left the room. 

————————————

She found him on the roof of the manse they were staying in, sitting against the low wall that ringed it, staring up at the sky, brooding. Dany found a place next to him and looked up at the stars with him. 

“I used to do this with my mother when I was a babe,” she started, slowly turning the peach she had brought with her in her hands, “there’s something I find calming about the night sky. No matter where you are, how foreign the land, how lost you are, you can always find something familiar to hold onto if you just...look up. I needed it a lot as a child; always moving, always hiding. But at night I’d look up and see the Crone’s Lantern lighting the way and I’d feel a little less alone.”

He turned to look at her, face full of emotions, unshed tears filling his grey eyes. “I’m sorry you had to go through that as a child,” he said, his voice barely a whisper as he slowly shook his head. 

“It’s not your fault,” she said as she reached out and took one of his hands in hers. Soothingly, Dany stroked her thumb across the palm of his hand. “None of this is your fault, Jon. Aegon. Jaegon?” 

He smiled through his tears at her joke, a small chuckle that lit up his face and made Dany’s stomach feel full of butterflies. “Jon is fine, I guess. For now.”

“Jon it is. For now.” 

They sat there in a comfortable silence for a time, hand in hand, still. Dany eventually took a bite out of the white peach, which was ripe and juicy. 

“I can’t believe peaches grow here.” Jon said incredulously. “They’re my favorite.”

Dany smiled brightly at his admission. “Are they?” she asked and giggled when he nodded at her. “There’s so many here, Jon. Try this. Sweet and juicy.”

She handed him the half eaten peach and for a moment he seemed to stare at the fruit as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Then he took a big bite out of it and Dany watched as his pretty face lit up in happiness as the flavor worked through him. 

A drop of the peach’s juice dribbled down his chin and Daenerys reached out to wipe it with her thumb. As Jon stared at her with wide eyes, she sucked the juice off her thumb. 

“What?” she asked, shooting her nephew a confused look. 

He just chuckled and lightly shook his head in response. “Long story.”

“Well, seeing as we aren’t going anywhere…”

He blushed at her and took another bite of the peach, before trying to hand it back. “Keep it. You look hungry. Since you’ve got your mouth full, I’ll start.” 

Daenerys started to tell him of her life. The things the liked and those she didn’t. “I love ships,” she said at one point, when the peach was long eaten, her nephew having thrown the pit off the roof. 

“Not me,” he responded, “in fact I hate them. Ghost, too. Seven hells, he was miserable on that six month voyage from Volantis to Qarth. Made everyone on the ship miserable, too. Me included. The captain liked me, though. Liked Ghost, somehow, too.”

“Was he a tough captain? Did he work you until the tips of your fingers were naught but bone?” she asked, teasingly. 

Jon laughed at that, full and hearty. Dany was confused. “You’d laugh with me if you knew him. Hell, he’d laugh, too.”

She found herself laughing, for some strange reason. Being around him made Dany feel...younger...lighter. 

So she laughed with him. His face shone brightly at her laughter. “You have a nice smile,” he said. Dany felt herself blush at that. She was a widow, mother to a dead child, someone who walked into a raging funeral pyre and came out with three baby dragons; why was she reduced to some blushing maiden in front of her nephew? 

“Of all the places I’ve been, this has been the most peaceful. I don’t know why.”

He took her words with a pinched brow. Dany felt the absurd need to pinch him, there, between his eyebrows. 

“It’s because it’s quiet, I’d wager. Real quiet. The kind you only get in nature. The only real peace I’ve known has been in the godswood of Winterfell, in front of the heart tree.”

A sense of melancholy came from him as he talked of his home. Dany felt both sad for him and for her; she had never and would never know a place like that. 

“Winterfell, your home?”

“As much of one as a bastard could have. I had food and a bed and clothes on my back, but I always felt that I was...stealing them from my true born kin. It was my home, but never truly.”

“We have that in common, I suppose,” she remarked. 

“Still,” he started and looked down at his feet and flexed his left hand, “I’d love to show it to you, one day.” 

She could feel herself blush at that and smiled shyly. “I’d like to see it, I think,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Anger flared in her when she heard how like a little girl she sounded. But she let go of it, easily, offering her nephew a sincere smile. 

He smiled back at her, as wide and bright as she had seen. The sight of it made Dany happy. 

Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow sat together on that roof, arms touching, talking and laughing through the night and into the dawn, as a red sun rose over a black sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. Wasn’t great. I don’t like how passive Dany has been so far, but as you can see by the “vision” that’s gonna be changing pretty fuckin fast. 
> 
> Also I didn’t wanna spoil a lot and wound up spoiling *so much* lol. Whatever hope you can figure it out. So then I can “subvert” your expectations lolllll. 
> 
> I don’t know when the next Dany chapter will be. Lyanna II is next. It’s her first 7 or so years as Robert’s Queen. 
> 
> After that is Jon III. The big one. Probably another Jon two parter. If it is, the reveal is in part 2, sadly. And as you can see here, he’s still working through shit months later.


	8. LYANNA II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's Lyanna II. 
> 
> Queen Lyanna has some rough years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh. 
> 
> It is what it is, frankly. And what it is is almost entirely set up for Jon III.
> 
> See you on the other side.

A ruined city stood before her. Even now, months after the sack, the scars from that night still lingered everywhere in this cursed place. Charred stone, wrecked roofs, collapsed buildings as far as the eye could see. People moved about their business with empty and haunted looks in their eyes — women at the wells, men carrying supplies — but like their city they were broken.

_Like me, too._

This was the price of her foolishness; utter destruction. All of this was because she refused to marry Robert Baratheon, a man she was marching towards now, hoping he would marry her. Guilt was her constant companion. She would never be free of it. 

Lyanna wanted to cry and scream and rage. Instead, she meekly lowered her head and let her brother lead her through the shit lined streets. A retinue of guards and servants surrounded them, marching along through the city. One matron held Aegon towards the back of the party and at the end, two guards carried the coffin of little Nymeria. Grief enveloped her, joining with the guilt, leaving her feeling overwhelmed. In response, she clung closer to her brother.

“Just stay close and be quiet and we will get through this,” Ned said as he held onto her tightly, the Red Keep towering in front of them as they climbed its stairs. “Together,” he added.

King Robert, the first of his name was sat on the Iron Throne, holding court, as Lyanna walked into the Throne Room. The whispers and chattering of the various nobles lined in the cavernous hall started as soon as she entered. Ned led her through, an ever present guardian at her side, as they passed all manner of lord and lady. 

Towards the front of the room, a tall man with blonde chops and cold green eyes stood next to a stunning young woman with even colder green eyes. Lord Tywin Lannister and his daughter Cersei, she presumed. The man who ordered the murder of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen. Who would undoubtedly do the same to the little boy at the back of the hall should he ever find out his true identity.

Those thoughts were lost to her as she approached the throne. A tall and twisted thing, it cast a long shadow over the room, part of which stretched over the marble floor. Including a spot where the stone was blackened and charred. 

_Was that where the Mad King burned my papa? Is that where Brandon died?_

Her father and brother were murdered in this room, by the man who was her good father, the grandfather of the boy she bore a few weeks ago. A baby in the back of the room, in the presence of a birthright he might never know. 

She was staring at the spot when a hand that wasn’t Ned’s, it was bigger and rougher, grasped hers.

“My lady,” Robert Baratheon said softly, his blue eyes wide with worry, “it fills my heart to see you here.”

Lyanna flinched from his touch, which caused his face to darken. “Your Grace,” she said softly as she curtsied, still holding onto her brother’s arm. “It pleases me to see you,” she covered, quickly. 

He eased at that. 

“We have much to talk about, my King. Would you care to do so in private?”

Ned’s question hung in the air but for a moment before a feminine voice responded from just behind them, “I think I speak for all of us, your Grace, when I say what Lord Stark and his sister say concerns the entire realm.”

A muttering of agreement followed Cersei Lannister’s declaration. Robert flushed briefly with anger and then nodded in agreement. 

“Fine, fine,” he said while walking back to the Throne. “Tell us the story.”

Ned spoke for her. He told as much of the truth as he could. They had rehearsed it on the ship. Rhaegar abducted her. Claimed he was saving her from the madness of his father. He grew enamored with her. Raped her. With his Kingsguard took her to the Tower in Dorne. 

“Where she gave birth,” he said as a great gasp enveloped the hall, “to Rhaegar’s bastard girl.” 

The Throne Room erupted in chaos. People shouted and screamed. Robert stood from the Throne in silent anger, his blue eyes a storm of fury, his face red with rage. 

“But the babe died. It never lived. I brought its body to Starfall and preserved it in ice to present to you, your Grace.”

Nausea flooded her. The lie her brother told made her feel woozy and weak. The body of his dead babe, her little niece Nymeria, used to protect her son. Her grip grew tighter on Ned, as if letting him go would cause her to crumble into nothing. 

The guards presented the sealed metal casket of the baby, preserved in ice that they had changed regularly. Robert opened it and looked at the dead babe with disgust and summoned Grand Maester Pycelle to look at the body. 

“It has the brown hair of Lady Lyanna and the purple eyes of the Targaryens. It looks like the baby choked on its own cord. Probably just before birth. A small blessing, your Grace.”

“Take that rape baby, that cursed dragonspawn and burn it. Then take the ashes and throw them in a gutter so the peasants can piss and shit on them!”

“Robert,” Ned started and Lyanna could feel her brother’s choler rising as she closed her eyes. All around her the throne room was quietly buzzing with the sort of excited gossip that she loathed. She felt the walls closing in as another wave of nausea seized her. Breathing in through her nose, she exhaled through her mouth and opened her eyes. 

“No.”

The room silenced and Robert turned his head towards her. “What?” he asked. Lyanna felt Ned grasp her arm, a warning. But she wouldn’t heed him. Enough of her time here so far had been spent cowed and bent. 

She wrenched herself from her brother’s grasp, strode towards Robert, towards the throne, standing straight and tall as she stopped just in front of it. 

“I said, no.”

The King’s gaze was hard as steel. Lyanna matched it. For a long moment, they locked eyes and stared harshly at each other. She wouldn’t back down, she couldn’t. Not on this. 

Finally, Robert blinked and shook his head sadly. “What would you have done with the dragonspawn?”

“She has the blood of the First Men in her veins. I want her buried in Winterfell. With my family.”

The King slumped slightly and nodded. His gaze became unfocused and numb. “Fine. Send it North. But we are never to speak of that monster again.”

Lyanna nodded at that. Standing on her own for the first time since she stepped into the hall with Ned. She was done cowering. 

“We were betrothed, once, your Grace,” she started. There was no turning back now. Her fate was sealed. “If you would take a ruined woman…”

The silence that took hold of the room was sudden and swift. Robert stared hard at her before looking to his left and Lord Jon Arryn, who approached the throne. A whispered argument happened between the two. 

“No,” Robert said, standing and waving Lord Arryn away with his hand. “I fought a bloody war to win her back.” He looked at Lyanna as he stepped down the stairs of the throne, stopping in front of her and taking her hand, “I would take you as my Queen, Lady Lyanna, should you want it.”

She swallowed thickly and closed her eyes for a moment. _For you, my son. May you one day forgive me._

“Yes.” A smattering of applause broke out at her approval. And Lyanna Stark, aware of their eyes and the role she was stepping into, smiled stiffly. 

“The babe in the back,” Lord Arryn interrupted. “Whose is that?”

Ned stepped up and sold the rest of the lie. “Mine, my Lord. It’s my natural son. His mother...is gone. I intend to take him home with me to Winterfell. I have named him Jon.”

“Ned Stark with a bastard? Ha!” Robert exclaimed, his laughter echoing through the hall. “Very well, very well. You’re staying for the wedding, no?”

Ned looked at her for a moment and then back to his friend before nodding. “I shall bring my brother Benjen down. If Lyanna is to be your Queen, mayhaps he could be a Kingsguard?”

“That scrawny young thing? Ah, fine. It’d be nice for my Queen to have some family around her.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” she said softly. 

“Robert. Call me Robert,” he said, lifting her hands to his lips and kissing them. 

“Anything else?” he asked the rest of the room, his voice booming and painful in her ears.

“Your Grace,” Grandmaster Pycelle muttered as he trudged up to the Throne, “what of the dragon skulls? They have too much historic value to destroy. If you want them gone, perhaps the Citadel would be an appropriate place to…”

Robert had held his hand up silencing the man, his face cold, “Bury them in the dungeons. Bury all signs of the bloody dragons.”

————————————————————

They married two moons later in the Great Sept of Baelor. A grand affair that turned out half the realm. Her last wedding had been in front of a grove of bleeding trees, dressed in riding leathers and gauntlets she took off a dead man. Lyanna walked to this wedding garbed in the finest lace and silk dress she had ever seen, draped in a grey and white cloak of her house. It was something most maidens dream of. But Lyanna wasn’t a maiden, she was a mother and widow. 

Robert stood before her looking the very image of that young girl’s fantasy. It did nothing for her. All that she saw when she looked at him was the man who killed Rhaegar Targaryen. And after this night that man would have in her in the ways that Rhaegar once did.

Those thoughts, of him and the son she bore him, were pushed down deep, back into the depths of her heart they came from. She had more pressing worries. 

Robert wrapped her in a cloak of House Baratheon, a gorgeous cloak of golden silk and lined in black wool, the crowned stag in the middle made of dozens of black onyx diamonds. 

A kiss, chaste and quick, sealed their union as the sun shined through the stained glass, casting the hall in a rainbow light. She then knelt in front of the High Septon, who blessed her forehead with anointed oils and placed on her head a golden crown of horns. 

“In the name of the seven, I name you Lyanna, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Robert smiled brightly next to her, and grasped her arm as they walked down the main aisle of the sept, passing the various Lords and Ladies of the realm. Her brothers stood tall as she passed them, Ned wearing the Stark colors and Benjen in his new white armor. When she exited the Sept, the crowd erupted in applause. 

It only made Lyanna feel worse. How many people clapping her would cheer her if they knew that she was the cause for so much of their misery. The murder and rape of their families, the plunder and destruction of their homes, all because a strong headed girl decided to avoid the very fate she now accepted. 

The feast was a raucous affair, with her husband toasting what seemed like every man in the hall. Once when she was in conversation with Roose Bolton, Robert stood from the lower tables and lifted his goblet to the buxom bosom of a minor lady, to uproarious laughter. 

But none of that compared to the bedding ceremony. 

Three score men, dragged her to the King’s chambers, ripping and tearing at her dress, grabbing onto whatever piece of cloth and of her could. One knight squeezed her breast as he ripped the fabric off and Lyanna tried to cover her chest in distress. 

“Enough,” Ned said loudly. The good cheer amongst the men stopped instantly. Her brother emerged from the throng of red faced men, all of them looking disappointed, with a cloak in his hands. He wrapped her in it gently, then led them both towards the chambers, to the consternation of the men, who took off grumbling back towards the hall. 

“Robert should have stopped them,” Ned said, sadly. “I was blind, Lya. And now you’re stuck with him.”

“Hush, Ned. It does no good to talk of this. We must make the best of this.”

Lyanna’s brave face was undermined by her shaking uncontrollably. She was scared. 

“Your teeth are chattering,” Ned said as he rubbed her arms with his hands. 

“I will be fine, Ned. I will think of him. And be strong.”

“What was it father said?” Ned asked her, a sad smile across his face. 

“The only time a man can be brave is when he’s scared.”

“You’re the bravest person I know,” he said to her. 

Before she knew it, they were in front of the King's chambers, a gaggle of women dispersing. The paid her little mind as they walked down the corridor away from her. “What a cock!” one of them exclaimed. “Magelle knows all about that cock, doesn’t she?” 

Lyanna turned to Ned. “This is where we part, brother. Take care. I will see you in the morning.”

“Be brave,” he said as he kissed her brow. “I will send the egg your love.”

She nodded as tears built in her eyes, but blinked them away and walked into the room. 

Robert’s solar was massive, all signs of the Targaryens had been removed. Tapestries hung on the walls and over the mantle was his giant warhammer. The one that killed Rhaegar. She wanted to look elsewhere, but couldn’t. 

“Figured you’d like that,” he said as he entered the room. She turned to find him grinning at her, naked. He was well built, tall and strong. Thick black hair lined his chest, arms, legs and crotch, where his cock stood erect and red. 

“Where’s your honor guard?”

“Ned objected to it.”

He laughed and walked towards her. “Good. Figured I’d have to break some jaws to get you alone.” He smiled as he pulled her into his body. “All that I’ve done, was for this moment. You and me.”

He kissed her, softly at first, which took Lyanna by surprise. Robert wasn’t known for his softness. He tasted of wine, but it wasn’t bad.  
Then the kissing grew more passionate and a tiny part of her swooned at it. He lifted her up and carried her, stumbling, into the bedroom. That was when she noticed how drunk he was. 

He tossed her on the bed and tried to strip her of her clothes, to no avail. They were naught but a mess of fabric. “Seven hells take these off,” he complained as he poured himself a glass of wine, downed it and poured another and downed that. 

She obeyed his command and was naked on his bed. He leered at her while he stroked his cock and laid on the mattress, which creaked at his weight. 

“You’re mine now,” he said as he pushed into her with no warning. She gasped in surprise. His hand fumbled at her mound, in a haphazard attempt to unravel her, but he was drunk and clumsy and seemingly knew little in the ways of pleasuring a woman. She lay still while he thrust inside her harshly. Robert was a big man; muscled, tall and his size enveloped her, his bulk propped up on his forearms. 

Sweat and spittle dribbled from his face and dropped onto her face. She winced at it, the feeling of disgust building in her becoming overwhelming. He moved from trying to find her nub to groping at her breast, kissing her mouth desperately. 

“Almost there,” he moaned in her ear. “Are you close?”

She responded with a fake moan of her own, seeking to end this farce. It worked as he pumped harder before finishing with a groan and filled her with his seed. “Love you,” he said as he licked her lips. 

Lyanna smiled and rubbed his hair, swallowing all her agony and pain and burying them deep inside of her. He pulled out and rolled over, his broad chest rising and falling, raggedly. In a matter of seconds, seemingly, she heard him snoring next to her. 

The loneliness and despair that rushed back once he was asleep overwhelmed her. All she could do was roll over, pull the sheet tight against her and sob furiously into her pillow.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Three days later, days filled where Robert constantly fucked her, they were in the Throne Room for the first time as King and Queen. Lyanna wore her crown and sat next to the twisted iron monstrosity. Most of the realm had stayed past the wedding. But not Ned. Her brother had taken Aegon and sailed north the day after the wedding. She had wanted to stop him, but knew it was impossible. Instead she left her chambers for an hour and hugged him fiercely. 

It was more than she had with her son, all she saw of him was when a wetnurse carried him into Ned’s solar as he sobbed. He cried out for his mother, for her, and instead she had to sit stone faced as some stranger tried and failed to soothe him.

Then they were gone and she was back on her bed, laid out flat on her belly as Robert took her from behind.

“I should make a gift for you, my Queen Lyanna,” Robert declared, rousing her from her reverie. “Name it and I shall grant your boon. Gods know you’ve been through enough.”

He walked down the steps of the throne and met her at the bottom, grasped her hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. In public, Robert was the epitome of chivalry, yet that didn’t extend to their chambers. A septa called the act of coupling “love-making,” in her crash course lessons before she became Queen. Her husband seemed to view love as ownership and he made sure to remind Lyanna who she belonged to when they were “making love”. 

She and the King stared at each other for a moment and Lyanna looked in his blue eyes. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but they seemed to have specks of purple. He smiled deeply at her, unaware that he wouldn’t be smiling when he heard her request. 

“This babe I bore Rhaegar,” Robert dropped her hands as she started, “it died a better death than its siblings, your Grace.” His face was furious again, Lyanna took note of how quickly he went from calm to anger. Those cheeks exploded red, blue eyes wide. 

“What of it?”

“I am your Queen, I will bear your children, but I will not allow myself or my sons to wear a crown covered in the blood of innocent and murdered women and children. You want to make a gift for me?” She turned towards the Lannisters and found nothing but anger in their gaze. “Bring me the heads of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. Let the lords know that the reign of Robert Baratheon will include the justice the dragons denied the realm.”

It was a challenge to him, to the lords assembled and Tywin Lannister most of all. Inside she was a scared girl, standing in front of people who would destroy her and her child like they did Elia and hers. But she showed none of that. 

“Your Grace,” Tywin Lannister started as he approached the throne. His green eyes were slits, serpent like, as they focused on Lyanna. “We have discussed this matter before. I had your assurances…”

“You had his assurance, my Lord. But Kings can change their minds, especially in the face of new...advice.” Lyanna said, cutting Tywin Lannister off before he could truly start. 

She smiled sweetly at Lord Tywin, hands clasped in front of her, eyelashes batted with feigned innocence. 

The Lord Paramount of the West responded with ice in his bright green eyes. Lyanna knew she was treading on dangerous waters, but her guilt overrode her trepidation and fear. 

Next to her, Lord Arryn cleared his throat gently, warily eyeing his new Queen. That the Hand of the King had not wanted Lyanna as Queen was something she had not forgotten. 

“My King, my Queen, while I had previously advised the crown to ignore the crimes of Ser Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, I would agree with Queen Lyanna. Let the realm see that justice will prevail.”

Robert looked thoroughly confused next to her. “I had thought you meant a bauble or cord of gilded silk. Nevertheless, I can’t deny my love what her heart desires.” He scanned the hall, coming to rest upon one of his Kingsguard. “Ser Barristan. Take fifty riders and seek out Clegane and Lorch. Bring them to me. Alive if you can.”

“Your Grace,” he said as he bowed deeply. “I will seek justice for Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon. I thank you for allowing me such.”

In a blink he was out the door of the Throne Room, leaving behind a muttering court. Tywin Lannister stood stiff and tall, one last glance at Lyanna, which sent shivers down her spine, before he turned on his heels and out of the room. 

“Anything else?” Robert asked as he walked out the door behind the throne, leaving silence in his wake. 

Lyanna made to follow when Lord Arryn took her arm in his. “That was bold, my Queen. Very bold.”

“If I am to be Queen, there will be justice in this realm.”

“Justice is a worthy goal, Lyanna. But next time make sure it doesn’t cover a guilty heart.”

She sputtered as he patted her hands lightly. “It’s okay. No one who knows truly blames you. Not many could deny Prince Rhaegar. Most of them couldn’t deny Aerys, either.”

“Robert…” she started, afraid that her husband knew.

“Will never acknowledge it. You need not fear him, my Queen. Robert can act a boy, but he will never truly hurt you. I have known him from when he was but a small child.”

Lyanna didn’t know if Jon Arryn was lying to her or merely delusional. She just smiled demurely in response. 

————————————————————

Unlike the godswood in Winterfell, her home, the godswood in the Red Keep lacked a weirwood tree at its center. Instead, there was a great oak that stood sentinel in the wood, an impressive tree by any standard, but Lyanna found it desperately wanting. 

Still, it was a place of peace and tranquility. Where she could disappear for a few hours of solitude. She often took the letters Ned would send her from Winterfell to the wood, where the quiet allowed her to cry while reading about the piece of her heart that lived there, inaccessible to her. 

Ned wrote that her son had taken well to the wetnurse Old Nan had found for him. He also spoke at his joy at seeing his son, Robb. “The gods have blessed me with two healthy sons,” he wrote and Lyanna felt those words like a lash on her heart. The letter spoke of the small burial service for Nymeria and how Catelyn has stood next to him as he cried, holding his hand. “She finds the babe’s story terribly sad and wanted to express her sorrow to you.” That her brother said nothing of Catelyn Tully’s reaction to Aegon didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Lya,” Benjen called as he entered the godswood. At 15 he was only half a man, but a recent growth spurt had given him a good height. Skinny as he was, his armor looked ill fitting on his thin frame. “Ser Barristan has returned. He brought back the head of Amory Lorch. But Gregor Clegane escaped. Rumor has it he sailed to the Disputed Lands ahead of his executioners, with a small company of men.”

“Pity. I’m sure Prince Doran will be interested in that fact.”

“Yes. Lord Arryn is going to Dorne in a sennight, personally. With the bones of Princess Elia and the babes, along with Lorch’s head. Mayhaps some enmity can be eased.”

“I doubt it, Ben,” she said sadly. “If I had been raped and murdered along with my two small children, would you forget that quickly?”

“Never,” he vowed. “Never.” Her brother shook his head softly from side to side. After a moment, he continued. “On that note, Ned gave me a gift before he left.” 

Benjen pulled out a small pouch from under his doublet, that was tied to his neck. It looked to be filled with coins. “Sixty gold dragons. I keep twenty more in my boots, ten in each shoe. Should we need to make a quick escape from the Capitol. Enough to get us across the Narrow Sea.”

It was a well considered plan. Which meant it was undoubtedly Ned’s. 

“Good,” she said as Benjen helped her to her feet. “I shall write Ned to tell him of my thanks for his wise plan.”

Benjen scoffed. “How did you know it was all Ned?”

She laughed and smiled at him, grasping his arm and walking through the godswood. Benjen chuckled along with her and for a moment she felt happy. 

————————————————————-

It was a night free of Robert, thankfully. He had gone to Storm’s End, To Ser things to rights for Renly. He would be gone a fortnight, which meant the bruises he left on her would be able to heal. She ate dinner alone for the first time months, no lords or ladies seeking time with her. 

The only other person in the room was Ser Barristan Selmy. He and her brother were Lyanna’s personal guard. Ser Jaime has gone to Dragonstone at Cersei’s request. 

“His last words were your name,” he said quietly as he looked down at his feet. “As he sunk into the riverbank and darkness overcame him, they told me he whispered your name.”

A single tear dropped down her cheek, which she swiped a finger at hastily. 

To keep him in the back of her mind was dangerous enough, but to speak of him was something that Lyanna was not prepared to do. Certainly not with someone like Barristan Selmy. Most especially not in a place like the Red Keep, where there were eyes and ears everywhere. 

“The last words I said to him were ‘I hate you,’ my good Ser. And I meant it.”

He looked thoroughly chastened at her response. “Of course, my Queen, I meant no disrespect, I…”

She silenced him by reaching out and grabbing his hand. “I know you didn’t. And I thank you for your company tonight.”

He took the hint and bowed deeply before leaving. When she was alone, her breathing became ragged and harsh and she wound up burying her tears in a pillow. 

Rhaegar’s last words were her name. He died with her name on her lips and every breath she took was a betrayal of that love. Every breath his son, _their_ son took away from her, alone, was another betrayal. 

For neither the first, nor the last time, Lyanna cried herself to sleep. 

—————————————————————

“Why you?” she asked, her voice a sad whisper. “He could have had anyone and he chose _you_?”

She had invited Cersei Lannister, now Cersei Baratheon, to her solar for supper. It had been a few weeks since her own wedding and close to her departure for Dragonstone with her new husband, Lord Stannis. They were sisters by law, after all. 

A dainty finger gently rubbed the lip of her goblet as she rested her head on the back of her other hand, golden hair cascading down in perfect curls. Her emerald eyes, normally cold and haughty, were now distant and melancholic. Even while relaxed, Cersei Lannister was the most dramatic person Lyanna had ever met. 

“Rapists often lack sense,” she offered, lamely. 

Cersei scoffed at that. “Come now. You and I know that Rhaegar was no Robert. He never took. He made you give it up. But in the end result is the same, men like that always get what they want. Damn the consequences. And stupid girls around the world, well, we let them.”

“You loved him,” Lyanna said as she realized the truth. “Rhaegar,” she added, unable to hide how her voice hitched at his name. 

“Why you?” was Cersei’s only response. 

“I ask myself that question all the time.”

Lyanna offered her an olive branch, a chance to end whatever enmity existed between them. Cersei wasn’t her father, she bore no responsibility for her father’s actions during the sack. Seven hells, she had less blood on her hands than Lyanna. How many deaths was Cersei guilty of? 

“In the end, maybe it's just because you were there. With your open legs. A cunt of convenience.”

Laughter came spilling from Lyanna’s lips. For the first time in a long while, she was actually amused. 

“I wish that’s all I was to him. Instead I was a vessel for his prophetic ramblings. A womb to be fertilized, to bring him another dragon.”

There was enough of the truth there to overcome her misgivings. She had spread worse lies about Rhaegar Targaryen and would undoubtedly in the future. 

“A womb? Any woman of a certain age has that. Why you? A plain northern woman? There’s more attractive whores in Lannisport.”

Frustration bubbled in her. 

“You’re upset he didn’t choose you? Mayhaps he should have. He might still be alive if he had chosen your womb rather than mine. His child might, too. But in the end he chose me, told me he loved me when he was inside me, spilling his seed. And you? He didn’t even know who you were.”

She reacted as if slapped, recoiling back against her chair. Those bright green eyes squinted at her, hard, hatred spilling from them. 

“I wasn’t the only one to love him. We all can see it, you’re terrible at hiding it. Your husband knows it, too. Mayhaps that’s why he’s with his whores every night.”

“You think he would have been faithful to you? That I’m the reason he’s in some other woman as we speak?” she laughed again. “Rhaegar. Robert. Neither of them would have made you happy, Cersei. Nor the crown that came with them. Being with them brings nothing but pain.”

Her good sister said nothing as she stood and walked from the room, her face reflecting the same hatred for Lyanna than her father’s did. But unlike Lord Tywin cold gaze, Cersei’s hatred was a burning flame. 

The remaining wine in her goblet was downed when she was alone, leaving her to brood. In these moments, her thoughts drifted north, and to the piece of her heart hidden there. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Even in the twilight hours, the city was hot and humid, the open air of the balcony offering little relief, as sweat dripped down her body. The marble balustrade wrapped around the top level of Maegor’s Holdfast, encircling the King’s chambers. Lyanna Baratheon, she was a _Baratheon_ now, though the thought still made her sometimes shudder, leant against it as the sun set over Blackwater Bay. In the distance ships made their way out of the port and into the world. 

She would give anything to be on one of those ships. To be free of this place, to go home and see her son.

Thought of him came to her unbidden and often. There was not a day that passed, and usually not even an hour, where Lyanna didn’t imagine what he was doing, how he was feeling, if he was fed and dry, fussy and crying. A baby, all alone in a crib, calling out for a mother that would never answer. She wiped a finger against her nose and silently cursed the tears filling her eyes. 

Despite the oppressive heat Lyanna pulled the thin robe tight against her naked body as she shivered uncontrollably. 

Her shaking increased when she heard him enter the chamber. There was only one reason her husband came to her at this hour. _To claim what is rightfully his_.

Dread pooled in her stomach as he called out to her, somehow slurring her name. Drunk, again. This would leave bruises in the morning. He often did. 

Robert’s steps were loud and stumbling as he approached her. Lyanna stayed with her back to him, still leaning on the balustrade as he pressed against her. She could feel his erection through the thin pair of trousers, before those fell to the floor. Her robe was ripped off her and if she didn’t help it along, Lyanna was sure he’d have torn it in half. Naked and bent over the balustrade, she waited for him to claim her. 

Her husband stank of wine and sweat as he pushed down on her shoulders and entered her harshly. She moaned, a mix of shock and pain and distress and a small amount of pleasure, which made her hate herself. One giant hand gripped her hip hard, the other grabbed a breast even harder. 

“Gonna fuck you for all to see,” he mumbled as he thrusted erratically. “Fuck the dragon right out of you.” 

A cry, desperate and unheeded escaped her mouth. The hand on her breast let go and moved to cover her mouth. He groaned as his breaths grew ragged and after a moment or two, he finished inside of her with a loud grunt. “Mine,” he hissed. All of his weight came to rest on top of her as she was pressed down against the balustrade, his chest heaving against her back. 

In the morning he would claim the drink made him this way, but Lyanna knew that _this_ was the true Robert. A man who took what he wanted and was too much of a coward to face the consequences. His still ragged breath filled her ear as he crushed her with his body. 

In the distance she saw a half collapsed building, open windows lit up red by the fires burning inside, smoke from the hearth escaping the broken chimney, rising up to the stars. A single tear fell from her eye, landing on the marble. For some reason she thought of a ruined castle, a woods witch and the smell of ash. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The baby, a boy with a shocking amount of black hair, came into the world screaming after a relatively easy birthing. His half brother had taken far more from her than he did. 

Robert strode into her chambers carrying the pelt of a wolf, skinned and tanned, in his arms. He looked like an absurd boy, all proud and pleased with himself, as he settled next to her. “For you, my love,” he said, placing it at the foot of her bed. 

“A son,” she whispered softly as the babe slept in her arms. “Our son,” she continued. The words sounded strange to her. 

“An heir. You have given me much, Lya.”

Shame and guilt flooded her for reasons she didn’t know. The boy in her arms would one day sit on the Iron Throne. Unlike his brother, whose ancestors had built the cursed thing. All she could do was hold the baby in her arms close to her chest and bury her nose in his tuft of hair. 

“He needs a name,” she whispered. 

“Seven hells, he does, doesn’t he? Steffon? After my father? What’s a good name for a king?”

She almost blurted out, ‘Aegon,’ but held her tongue. Another historical Baratheon came to her mind, one who was a half brother to an Aegon. 

“Orys,” she said, confidently. 

Robert regarded her for a moment, his blue eyes looking at hers, then he blinked and laughed. 

“Ha! An Orys started my house. An Orys will start our dynasty. I like it. Better than ‘Boremund’ at least.”

“Orys,” she said again, trying out the name on her tongue, kissing the top of his tiny head. 

“What better name for a king?” Robert asked. 

_I know of one,_ she thought, bitterly. 

—————————————————————

“Wine,” Robert called out, glumly. A squire, some Royce boy, hurried with a pitcher to fill his King’s goblet. For once, Lyanna couldn’t blame her husband for his need to drink. Dinners like this would drive any person to a boozy stupor. 

Robert sat at her right, to his left was Jon Arryn. The table was a massive round thing, which could sit an easy fifty people. There was blessedly less than that sitting in the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. 

Next to the Hand of the King was his wife, the permanently dour Lady Lysa. Then came Tywin Lannister, his face a cold, grim mask. Lady Cersei and her husband Lord Stannis Baratheon followed and Lyanna was certain she had never seen a more miserable couple. Lord Renly sat next to his brooding brother, a marked contrast with his easy smiles and fawning words. Lyanna trusted not one of them, including Robert’s brothers. 

The rest of Robert’s small council filled the table, the eunuch Varys, whose eyes seemed to tell Lyanna that he knew all her secrets. Petyr Baelish picked at his plate with an air of disdain that made Lyanna seethe. Ser Barristan Selmy completed the circle sitting to Lyanna’s left, chivalrous as ever. 

“Your Grace,” he asked, concern on his face, “are you okay? You’ve barely touched your food.”

It was well spotted by the old knight. Lyanna sighed and looked towards Robert, who was tearing into a turkey leg like some half-deranged monster. What did her husband care?

“I am fine my good Ser.” She looked around the table as they barely paid her any notice. “I am merely with child, again.” 

The table murmured their approval. Most of them, that is. Lord Tywin and Lady Cersei shared a quick glance that only Lyanna caught, but it was enough to send a chill down her spine. 

“My congratulations, my Queen,” Jon Arryn said as he lifted his goblet of wine. Next to him, Lysa sat straight as a board, her knuckles white as she gripped her silverware. 

They all muttered around the table and then lifted their glasses in a toast. 

“If it’s a girl, Myrcella would have some company,” Jon Arryn said, offhandedly. Cersei had given birth to a girl a few moons back, with black hair and blue eyes. Lord Stannis seemed pleased, but Lyanna noticed that Cersei seemed disappointed in the girl. 

“Because Orys and Joff are such brothers,” Renly scoffed with a smile, leaning back in his chair. The shy boy had become a cocky teen, tall and lanky. 

Stannis and Cersei shared a quick and harsh glance and Tywin shifted in his seat, subtly.

“And what do you mean by that, brother?” Stannis gritted.

The tension around the table had dramatically increased in a heartbeat, but Renly showed no signs that it affected him. Instead he smiled even brighter. 

“Prince Orys and little Joff get along about as well as their fathers do.”

Lyanna cut in, feeling that _some_ kind of diplomacy was necessary, “They are but children, Renly. Babes. Orys is barely four years old. Joffrey is three. There’s plenty of time for them to bond.”

She smiled brightly as she said it and turned towards Cersei as she did, a peace offering. Instead, all Lyanna found was cold green eyes staring back at her, the heat from their gaze burning whatever olive branch she offered. It was ever so. 

“Of course, your Grace,” Renly offered diplomatically, his hand placed on his heart.

“His Grace And Lord Stannis are fond of each other,” Ser Barristan offered. “I have seen them work together to make the Seven Kingdoms a better place.”

“Yes, they’re very prodigious,” Lord Baelish responded, as he lifted his glass slightly, a smirk on his face. “And productive. Why just last week they spent a considerable amount of time arguing over policy. I don’t remember what the policy was, do you, Lord Varys?”

Varys smiled sweetly, but Lyanna could see the enmity in his eyes. “I believe it was a matter of some concern. About women’s health.”

Lyanna sighed and downed her wine in one gulp. “Whores,” she said. “Don’t be coy, my lords. They were arguing about brothels and whores.”

“They should all be flogged, I say, the men and the women, too. Disgusting practice,” Lysa said. The whole table turned to her for a moment, before ignoring the harried woman and turning back. 

“Be that as it may, Lord Stannis and his Grace are always fond of vigorous debate.” Grandmaester Pycelle mumbled. 

“I had not heard of this. What was the debate?” Lord Tywin asked. They were the first words he had spoken the entire meal. He looked, to Lyanna, like a lion toying with its prey.

Robert sighed and called for more wine. “I had asked the king to outlaw brothels around the realm,” Stannis gritted. “His Grace disagreed.”

“And, your Grace, your defense of brothels was purely academic, was it not?” Cersei asked sweetly, batting her eyes at Robert, who had the courtesy to at least blush slightly. Stannis glared at his wife, who ignored her husband and kept the bright smile on her face. 

“Of course, yes, yes.” Robert said as he held his goblet out for a page to refill with wine and, again, downed in one gulp. Lyanna could take no more. 

“You’re very studied on the subject, my love, are you not?” 

Her hand patted his on the table, the sarcasm in her voice and action evident even to him. 

“That’s...a King does as he pleases, my love.”

“Yes. You do,” Stannis said for her. Robert turned his gaze to his younger brother, his blue eyes hard as steel. 

“A younger brother should be silent and do what his eldest commands.” 

Stannis clenched his jaw in silence, while his wife glanced at him with nothing but hatred in her eyes. 

“And the matter of the Targaryens, your Grace? I heard the Small Council discussed them at some length recently, as well.” Tywin Lannister almost looked to be smiling as he spoke. 

“I had urged his Grace to show mercy to the dragons and he agreed. They are no threat, alone and without allies.” Jon Arryn said. 

“A whore and her two spawn, let them debase themselves across Essos,” Robert spat. 

_Like you debase yourself?_

The words were on her tongue but she kept quiet. 

—————————————————

“Mama!” he exclaimed as he ran into her embrace. Her son was light as she lifted him in her arms and spun him around. Lyanna peppered his face with kisses, clutching even tighter to him as he laughingly tried to squirm out of her arms. 

“My sweet Aegon,” she said, clutching him to her tightly, burying her face in the brown hair on the top of his head. 

The dream turned, though, and he vanished from her embrace. Screaming his name, Lyanna ran aimlessly until she heard him crying out for her in response. She followed his wail until he was right in front of her. But instead of the sobbing boy, she found a grown man, with a long face, brown hair and deep grey eyes, staring back at her, coldly. 

“You weren’t there. I needed you and you weren’t there. What kind of mother abandons their child?” he asked, grabbing her shoulders in his hands. 

“What kind of mother are you?!” he yelled into her face and she screamed back in pain and agony, reeling from his harsh grasp, waking herself up. Her breaths came quick and harsh as she slowly opened her eyes and found a face pressed against hers. 

“Mama are you okay?” Orys asked, his small face a few inches from hers as she blinked away the sleep and hugged him fiercely. “I was scared, too, mama. I had a bad dream about ice monsters.”

Some tears escaped her eyes, but Lyanna held the bulk of them at bay, her middle child held tight against her body.

“Why are you crying?” her sweet boy asked. 

“I had a bad dream, too, sweetling,” she responded as she brushed some hair out of his face. 

“Oh. Did that Aegon man hurt you?”

She could feel her face pale. “Where did you hear that name?”

Her son shrugged. “You said it in your sleep.”

Seven hells, she was falling apart. “He’s someone gone, Orys. But I see him in my dreams.” 

Her son nodded at her. “Can I sleep in your bed tonight, mama?”

Lyanna knew he was getting too old for this, but after the nightmare she had just woken from, she knew she needed him there as much as he needed her. “Yes, my love,” she whispered as he snuggled up to her. 

Within a few minutes, Orys was asleep in her arms. And as she slowly drifted off, it was another son whom Lyanna wanted in her arms. All she could do was hold Orys tighter, sob silently until sleep claimed her.

—————————————————————

Her third child, and first girl, came into the world screaming. Lyarra, she named her as Robert could barely care enough to only offer his mother’s name for the babe and shrugged at other suggestions. So Lyanna named her daughter for her mother. She had the Stark look, long face and brown hair. 

If Lyanna squinted, she was holding her first child again, it was he that was feeding from her breast again. But it wasn’t. 

Four years into her reign as Queen and Lyanna spent most of the year after Lyarra’s birth in a malaise. She all but abandoned her queenly duties and spent almost all of the time in bed, crying. Even in the presence of her children, the unshakable sadness held her in its iron grip. 

Grandmaester Pycelle claimed that her feelings weren’t unusual. Some women went into a depression after the birthing of a child. It didn’t assuage any of her insurmountable guilt. It didn’t make her any less of a failure. 

It was Benjen, who got her up and moving, who got her back to something approaching normal. He would drag her to the godswood and there would give her letters from Winterfell, from Ned. She and Ben and Orys and baby Lya would sit in the godswood for hours, listening or telling the tales of Robb and Jon and the troubles they caused her poor brother. 

“And they shoved a pile of snow onto an unsuspecting guard, burying him up to his neck. These boys, Lya, they’re going to be the death of me.” Benjen read aloud. 

She and Orys started laughing hysterically at that tale. “Mama,” Orys noted, “you’re smiling again.”

“I am, sweetling. I am.” 

\-------------------------------------------------------

By the time they were heading North, Lyanna was starting to realize how much of a failure her first six or seven years as Queen were. She had barely left the Red Keep in that time, guilt and loneliness and pain her only true companions. 

It would not suit, anymore. She was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, more than some bruised broodmare. This visit to Winterfell was the start of her true reign. After that, she would ride about the Kingdoms, North and South, visiting the realm, shoring up support for her son to take the Throne. 

_Which son?_

Some questions were left unanswered. 

An entire month was spent on the road to Winterfell, during which Lyanna visited and heard as many people as she could. From the highest lord to the lowest poorfolk, their Queen showed her face, heard their concerns. She showed she was more than a victim. 

But once across Moat Cailin, for the first time in years, breathing northern air, Lyanna started to feel whole again. She had even managed to take a horse and ride across the Barrowlands for half a day, her guards struggling to keep up. 

Wind in her hair, horse under her, Lyanna was _free_ , even for a moment. 

The night they stayed at Castle Cerwyn was the longest of her life. All the pain and horror she had suffered and witnessed and caused was nothing compared to the anxiety of that long night. 

She was finally going to see her son. The piece of her that she abandoned seven long and grueling years ago. A child that was nothing more than some words on a piece of parchment. Lyanna was going to be whole. 

It wasn’t long before Winterfell came into view that morning, as they trudged along. The sun shone brightly as she stuck her head out of the window of the carriage. When she exhaled, her breath was visible, drifting through the air. Crisp and clean, not the thick and smelly air of the south. 

She had been a Targaryen for a brief period of time and was now a Baratheon, but those were just names. Above all, she was a Stark of Winterfell. And for the first time in over eight years, Lyanna Stark was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, meh. The key thing I wanted to hammer home was that Lyanna was lost and adrift without Jon, she was miserable as Queen and that she was so happy to finally see him. Which leads us to:
> 
> Up next? The big one, Jon III, aka "The Reveal". I'm sure it'll go well for Lyanna, right? Right?!?
> 
> Gird your loins. It's gonna be a big one. Both in what it means to the story and in terms of length. Which means it might be a bit of a wait before you see it. I am NOT going to split it up. If that means it's 20k words, then so be it. It's one chapter, which is what I've planned it to be.
> 
> I also have a big surprise in store for you guys with Jon III. I think you're REALLY gonna like it. (I'm also highly likely to spoil it long before the chapter. Check out my tumblr during September (strickland527) and I'll likely post it there.)
> 
> EDIT: THE SURPRISE IS READY EARLY HERES A TEASE:
> 
> https://strickland527.tumblr.com/post/187647602066/jon-iii


	9. JON III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some shit happens, then more shit happens, then it hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here. It's...okay. Far too big and awkward and I didn't set up as much of the political shit as I'd like but that's what the later Lyanna and Orys and probably Sansa chapters (thought not many of Orys and Sansa, I promise you) are for.
> 
> But I’m tired of this chapter, of tinkering and tinkering with it day after day and week after week. I want to be done with it and move on. 
> 
> Fair warning, you might hate Jon after this. And that's okay. 
> 
> One thing I wanted to do is after he finds out the truth, was to use "Jon" as little as possible to highlight how lost he has become. It's a little strange and it won't last long, but it felt right to me, even if the execution is kinda poor.
> 
> See you on the other side...I hope you like it...

_Jon Snow opened his eyes on the morning of his ninth name day, to the sun peeking through his window, casting a weak shadow over his sparse room. Spring had come and the light was getting stronger each and every dawn._

_He smiled as he looked towards the desk in the corner. A small pile of presents, the most prominent of which were a wooden blade, a note tied to the pommel and a large wooden dragon._

_The note hung from the sword on a string and it was the first thing he examined. Jon recognized the familiar handwriting and began to read._

__Jon,  
I hope this blade will guide you to become an adept warrior. But above all I hope it teaches you when not to use it. Happy Nameday, son._ _

__Your father._ _

_The sword was a beautiful piece, polished and stained until it reflected the sunlight off of it. Jon picked it off his side table and grasped the leather bound hilt in his hands. Unlike his brother Robb, Jon’s pommel was plain and unadorned, a simple orb of dark wood. Robb’s was a direwolf’s head, teeth bared and howling._

_But his brother was a Stark and Jon was a Snow. He had no right to wear the direwolf, to carry the symbol of his father’s house on his sword, wooden or not. So he set it aside, for now. Instead, he reached for the dragon._

_It, too, was wooden, but painted. The scales that covered the dragon were painted black. Two blood red eyes stared back at him. His old dragon was plain wood and much smaller. This was large and heavy and gorgeous. It took two hands to lift and fly through the air. As he swung it around a note fell from it:_

__Happy Nameday. I know you love dragons. May this one be a fierce and powerful protector. Love, Lyanna._ _

_Smiling, Jon Snow left his presents on his bed and walked from his room. It was time to break his fast. As he closed his door, he hoped the cooks would sneak him a sweet for his special day, as they did his siblings. They usually remembered his._

_+_

_He heard the noises before the door came fully into view. Happy noises — chattering and laughing that emanated from Lady Stark’s room. The door was slightly ajar, allowing those sounds to travel down the hall, to where he stood, frozen against the wall. Their voices were recognizable to him, even though he couldn’t see them, even though all some did was merely laugh._

_Lady Catelyn’s spoke with a lightness Jon had scarcely ever heard from her. “Arya be careful my love and stop jumping near the edge of the bed.” Robb and Arya responded by laughing loudly. Sansa and Bran were giggling and crying. “Father,” she yelled, “stop tickling me!”_

_His Lord Father was in there, too. Jon heard his deep voice echoing through the room and into the hall. “Stop?” he asked, “why would I do that when you’re at my mercy?” The laughter then continued even louder. Jon was next to the door, back to the wall and he slowly slid down the cold stone until he was sitting, his arms splayed on the floor next to him._

_He had never heard his father sound happier. It felt like a knife to the gut. They _all_ sounded so happy. That Jon wasn’t there was probably the reason. As much as he wanted to go in there, he couldn’t, wouldn’t. The happiness and laughter would end as soon as they saw him. He was a black cloud on his family, bringing nothing but shame and scorn and sadness upon them. _

_Tears built in his eyes but he wouldn’t cry, not here, not today, not on his nameday. Instead he sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with his sleeve._

_“What’s that?” he heard Robb ask. What seemed like a second later the door opened wider and a familiar shock of red hair poked through. Blue eyes, deep and cold glanced at him from high above. The Lady Stark didn’t even bother to turn her head at Jon, she just stared straight ahead and a ghost of a smile appeared on her face. She stepped back and closed the door, locking it in place with a click._

_“It was nothing,” she said through the door, her voice full of mirth. “Now, where were we?” With that, the laughter returned in force, a cacophony of happiness with Jon on the other side of it. He stood weakly, wiping at his nose and cheeks as the snot and tears leaked slowly. Numbly, he stumbled from the hall and towards the stairs, failing to keep the sorrow and loneliness at bay._

_+_

_He then came running into the godswood, tears streaming down his cheeks, falling in front of the giant weirwood tree. The rejection from only moments before still a fresh wound on his heart._

_“Please,” he pleaded, on his hands and knees, “please make me legitimate, like my brothers and sisters and cousins. I don’t want to be a bastard.”_

_Jon cried, his hot tears dripping down his long face, dropping onto the roots of the tree, a paltry offering to the old gods but all a bastard could give . “Please,” he whispered as he rested his head against the pale white bark. He was lonely and ashamed and so tired of feeling as such._

_When he was feeling like this, his thoughts almost always turned to his mother. As he knelt against the tree, Jon wondered where she was, if she thought of him. Did she know it was his nameday? Did she even care?_

_A breeze blew through its white branches, shaking the blood red leaves, the only answer to his desperate prayer. After a few minutes, the sobbing stopped. He lifted himself up and leaned against the tree, crossing his arms and hands under his armpits, knees tucked into his chest._

_“Snow,” a raven squawked from a branch above. “Snow.”_

__Even the birds know what I am._ _

_The Bastard of Winterfell trudged back to the castle, no more tears left to cry on his ninth nameday._

———————————

They found the wolves on a cool summer day, the morning after a small storm left a coating of snow across the land. Ser Rodrick had come just after they broke their fast, with the news that a Night’s Watch deserter had been found near Castle Cerwyn. Jon was watching Bran and Robert Arryn with their wooden swords when Lord Eddard, recently back in the North after a few months in the capital, had come wanting the three of them to ride out and help deliver the King’s justice.

Sweetrobin and Bran were both well past their eleventh namedays, old hands at northern justice. The man’s last words were of the Others come again — nonsense Jon knew, despite the hair that stood on the back of his neck at the deserter’s insistence — and then he was dead, quick and clean. Jon patted Bran and Robert on the back as they rode off, proud at how neither looked away at the blood and gore.

That didn’t stop the lads from then spurring their horses and taking off, leaving Jon and the rest of the party behind as they raced back towards Winterfell. When they came back, yelling about what they had found, that was when Jon knew they had gotten themselves into trouble.

Seven pups laid in a small pool of blood; four male and three female, small and blind and crying. Their fur was black and grey and brown, some solid and some a mix of the colors. Lord Stark had wanted them dead, a _mercy_ he called it as he claimed they wouldn’t live long without their mother.

Jon thought he was proof enough to prove his father’s words wrong.

_I lived._

It was only when he reminded his father that the seven wolves represented the seven legitimate children of he and the Queen, that Lord Stark’s hand was stayed.

“My lord, all of them will be in Winterfell soon for your son’s wedding. These wolves belong to them.”

“You want none for yourself?”

Something like guilt and shame mixed in his father’s eye and Jon met his gaze. He was a man grown, with designs on taking the black, he couldn’t be afraid of Eddard Stark’s gaze.

“I am just a bastard.”

He and Lord Eddard shared that long, silent look for a moment, before his father nodded and ordered Bran to collect them with Robert.

“Uncle Eddard,” Sweetrobin began, ominously, “the trail of blood leads away from the creek.”

Jon set the wolves in Bran and Robert’s laps and led his horse down the path, following the blood. It led through the winding woods, away from the creek, before a small clearing came into view. In the middle, surrounded by a coating of snow on the grass, lay a monstrous grey and black wolf, almost of a size with Jon’s horse, curled in on itself. When he unsaddled and drew his sword, the beast’s head turned, its grey eyes locked on him, before it stood, blood dripping from its flank, and limped off towards the forest.

As it disappeared into the trees, the wolf stopped, turned back towards Jon and howled, a sad and mournful cry. Then it was gone into the darkness, leaving only a trail of blood behind. Yet when he looked at where the dark blood had pooled, Jon noticed a small white figure moving. Another wolf pup, white as the snow that it was curled into.

“What was that?” his Lord Father asked as Jon strode over to the spot where the little pup was and scooped it into his hands.

“Their mother. She was protecting this,” he said as he held up the albino pup to his father. “Little pup must have gotten separated from the rest. She left him and limped off into the trees, headed south. All this blood loss, though, I don’t think she will live long.”

Another long moment passed where Eddard Stark stated at him blankly, lost in thought, before he blinked furiously and nodded at Jon.

“Good. Grab the pup and saddle quickly. The lads want to head back to the castle.”

He wanted to ask what they should do about the mother, but instead he did as he was told and listened for another lonely howl that would never come.

———————————

Winterfell was fit to burst. For the first time in over five years, the royal family was back in its stout walls. Save for the King, that was. Robert Baratheon stayed in his castle, Robb had told him that relations between the King and Queen were as strained as they had ever been.

“You’re back,” Jon said as he hugged his brother. Robb smiled as he stood in the godswood, snowflakes melting in his hair. His brother had grown almost as tall as Jon, his red hair fell to his shoulders, his face clean shaven and sharp.

“Gods, I missed this place. And you.”

Orys came next and Jon offered him a mock bow, which was waved off and the pair hugged. The Prince had grown as tall as Jon and in a year or so would probably be taller. Broad chested, he wore his hair short and had a thick beard at only six and ten. Which made Jon slightly jealous as the beard he was growing was splotchy and thin.

“It’s good to see you, Jon,” Orys said, a bright smile on his face.

“That’s Ser Jon, you dolt!” Arya’s voice echoed through the godswood as she ran to Jon and jumped in his arms. He almost cried in surprise and happiness as he spun her.

“I want a hug, Arya, come on,” Lyarra said with mirth in her voice. As his sister broke their embrace, his cousin filled the void, pulling him into her arms. After a moment he broke it and took stock of the pair.

They could be twins, almost the same height, the Stark look about them. Not quite women, but more than girls. Seeing them filled his heart with happiness.

“Seven hells, you’ve grown,” he said with a smile on his face.

“Not as much as me, though,” Sansa said as she approached him. His other sister had exploded in height, growing almost as tall as Robb and half a head shorter than him. A woman grown, she looked every bit the Southron lady she had always wanted to be.

Jon hugged her as well and smiled when she hugged him back. When they parted, he realized they were all here, save Bran and Rickon, the children of Lord Stark and Queen Lyanna, in the godswood of Winterfell. He felt elated at the sight.

“Didn’t burn down the place while we were gone did you?” Robb teased.

“With Bran and Robert, there were some close calls, though.” Jon added.

“The trouble they got into can’t possibly match what trouble we’ve caused in the Capitol.”

Arya’s remarks caused them all to chuckle. “Wild Wolves of Winterfell, isn’t that what they call you lot?” he asked.

“Now we have actual wolves!” Lyarra yelled and they laughed. They had met their wolves in the kennels earlier in the day. It had been a long fortnight for Jon and Bran and even a petulant Robert as they cared for all the wolves. But now every pup had their master.

“I’m surprised mother let you keep them for us,” Robb said.

“How has she been with you?” Arya asked him, suspiciously.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. While he and the Lady Stark would never like each other, they had come to respect the others opinion. Just the week before she had actually thanked Jon for suggesting that she find a falcon to give Sweetrobin as a gift. The lad had instantly ceased his sulking and immediately started arguing with Bran that his animal was better because it could fly.

Something had changed Catelyn Stark’s opinion of him. He suspected it was his knighthood — the Lady Stark took her Southron customs seriously. But a small part of him thought there was something else at play. Whatever it was, she would never share it with him.

“She has been very kind,” he said with a tight smile.

“Good,” Robb said as he released a breath through his nose.

His siblings and cousins walked the godswood with him, the occasional snowflake lightly falling around them, as a weak sun tried to break through the clouds. In those moments he was an equal, they teased and mocked him and he did the same, smiling and laughing until it hurt.

At some point, Bran, Robert And little Rickon came and started a snowball fight, before Arya and Lyarra and Sansa chased them off, all of them headed back towards the castle.

That left him alone with Robb and Orys. The three of them walked the beaten trails of the ancient wood, lined with the dead leaves of autumn, a dusting of snow clinging to them.

“I remember the first time I saw this place,” Orys said with a smile. “The three of us were in here playing and we fell and hurt ourselves.”

Jon grinned, recalling the way his aunt and uncle had comforted him.

“I had my first kiss with a girl here. Just before we left a few years ago.”

“You snuck a scullery maid in here who wanted to kiss the Crown Prince?” Robb asked, smiling. Jon, though, noted the way Orys’ eyes shifted, slightly, like it did when they were children and he was caught in a lie.

“Something like that. Before all that, though, I had told you that I wanted a brother. And you said I was yours. And you hugged me. I’ll never forget it. I was lonely growing up, with no one around. I had my mother, but she was my mother. And Lyarra.”

“And she’s, well, Lyarra,” Robb said, laughing, leaning against the weirwood with his arms crossed.

He and Orys snorted and chuckled with him. Then the Prince continued.

“Because you and Robb kept your words. You are my brothers. Now and always.”

He placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his face filled with emotion.

“I need you both by my side. Men I can trust. That’s why you’re both coming with me to the Capitol after this wedding.”

A part of Jon was elated that Orys wanted him by his side. Another part, smaller, but somehow truer, felt that he would exist in his cousin’s shadow, his brother’s shadow. He was an anointed knight, but he was still a Snow. Nothing could erase that. Especially, he imagined, in the south.

“I’m to marry the Lady Margaery, soon.” Orys said as his eyes shifted, again. Jon wasn’t sure why his cousin seemed uncomfortable at the thought of marrying Margaery Tyrell, from all he had heard she was beautiful and kind.

“And I need you both there. For the ceremony and beyond. I know you’ve been here, Jon, but Robb will tell you how tense things are in the Capitol. I mistrust my family, my uncles and cousins and their families. War is coming. Even father feels it. Plus, the Targaryens are stirring in the east, that bitch Rhaella and her brood lurking, waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“Tell him, Orys. Tell Jon about your dreams.” Robb urged their cousin on.

Jon stood straighter, flexed his left arm nervously and looked at his cousin. Orys sighed sadly. “I’ve been having these...dreams. Mother claims they’re visions from the old gods, but...I see a three eyed crow hovering above a woman, a beautiful woman. And she’s being savaged by three crowned men with beasts’ heads. A lion and a stag and wolf. They keep savaging her and fighting each other at the same time, until they’re all dead. Then they rise with their eyes bright blue. They’re dead but still moving. And then a pair of dragons, black and white, come and burn the bodies. That’s when I wake.”

Orys looked around to make sure they were alone, before muttering ominously.

“The dragons are coming, Jon.”

 

———————————

Robb Stark and Alys Karstark married at sunset in the godswood of Winterfell, as a dusting of snow fell around them. It seemed to Jon as if the entire North and half the southron kingdoms were there to watch the bride and groom swear to each other in front of the ancient heart tree, eyes ever bleeding.

The new gods had their own ritual, where a Septon said some words and anointed some oils and the groom cloaked the bride. Here there was no Septon, no oils. An honest and quick declaration in front of the old gods. A person who broke a vow in front of a weirwood was cursed, doomed to wander the world in pain and misery, or so Old Nan had said before she died.

Whatever the ceremony was, Jon liked it. He appreciated the simple ways of it. It seemed truer to him, less false than the pageantry that would come with Orys’ wedding. However, plain or pompous, there would be no wedding for him.

After the ceremony, Jon made only a cursory appearance at the reception in the Great Hall. He was sat with the squires and pages, all while the rest of his family sat up high, on the dais. His anointed knighthood couldn’t erase his stain, his _Snow_. Nothing could. The heat and press of the amount of people in the hall made him a little woozy.

So he got up and left.

When the cool air hit his face, he felt revived, letting it wash over him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply in the courtyard.

“Too hot for a Snow?”

As he snapped his eyes open in search of the voice he heard, a small man walked into the light from the darkness of a stall, a skin of wine in hand.

“Sorry. Ser Snow,” he said as he took a pull from the skin and offered it to him.

“You’re the Lannister imp.”

He chuckled at that, but it was mirthless. Tyrion Lannister plopped on the ground in front of Jon, leaning against a stall.

“That I am. You’re the Stark bastard.”

“Aye. That I am.”

As he went to take another chug of his wine, Jon ripped the skin from Tyrion’s hands and took a hearty sip himself. The imp regarded him with a sly smile as Jon sat down next to him.

“I’d have left, too. Watching people who are in love marry. It’s not fair. Marriage is a war. Look at my sister and _good_ brother. They loathe each other. That’s how it should be. So bad that you can’t imagine them fucking.”

Jon took another pull from the skin, the wine warming him from the inside. “Like the King and Queen?”

“Yes!” Tyrion exclaimed. “Just like that. You sensed the enmity between them and you’re not even around them much. Very observant.”

He stood, feeling a slight buzzing from the wine, and smiled at the Imp. “Bastards have to be, after all. Do dwarves?”

“None more so than dwarves, bastard. There is no bigger bastard than a little dwarf. But even the biggest bastard can dwarf an imp.”

Jon smiled as he left Tyrion Lannister to his wine and headed towards the godswood, the moon shining bright and full above him. When he arrived, he heard noises in the distance and stumbled towards a tree, using its branches as cover and bark as support to lean against. He didn’t want anyone to see him drunk.

Sansa was red faced and disheveled as she walked out of the godswood on wobbly legs. He didn’t want to spy, but felt making himself known would bring only awkwardness. That sentiment was confirmed to him when a moment later, Orys followed her, as he wiped at some moisture off his beard, which was glistening in the moonlight. Then he was beyond Jon’s sight, headed back towards the castle.

 _Orys and Sansa?_ It was like the old gods doused him in a pool of ice water. His mind reeled at what he had seen. Did any of his siblings know? Did his father? The Queen? Was Lady Margaery aware? Was Orys gonna set her aside for Sansa?

Those thoughts sent him stumbling from his hiding spot. For a moment he thought of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the cursed Dragon Prince who fell in love with his aunt and carried her away, against her will, dishonoring his wife and her family, bringing ruin upon his house.

Was that Orys’ fate? While Sansa clearly wanted whatever it was they were doing, it was still a great dishonor to House Tyrell and House Stark.

There was little he could say, he decided. Orys was the Crown Prince, Sansa was a noblewoman. Their activities would bring great dishonor on their houses, their families.

But even then, none so great as him.

———————————

The royal family spent a fortnight at Winterfell, staying behind long after their guests left. Jon was with his family again, all of them. Even Uncle Benjen. They played in the pools and fought in the training yard, rode horses and even went on a short hunt.

His siblings and cousins marveled at how wild Rickon was and how Robert Arryn had become a normal boy. Still a slight and skinny boy, but one who laughed and played and even swung a blunted sword with a little skill. He would never win a tourney and never win glory on the battlefield, but his mind was sharp and he was kind. It had taken months for the Lady Stark and Maester Luwin to stop his crying and shaking, months where the castle would be filled with a small child crying all night long, even as Lady Stark held him in his sleep.

But the tears abated and Maester Luwin was able to slow the shakes until the all but ceased. Now the lad would go weeks, if not months between fits. Even his petulance had been worn down, Bran’s sweetness had won him over until they were as brothers, as Lord Eddard had hoped.

Lady Lysa had her lord husband bring the boy back to the Vale, but Lord Jon had sent him back a fortnight later, so pleased with his progress that he insisted his son be a permanent ward of Winterfell. From what Jon was told, the Lady Arryn’s anger was so strong that she and her husband parted and to this day, Lord Jon hadn’t returned to the Eyrie. Yet despite her rage, her son remained apart from her.

Which suited the little lad just fine. Jon, too. He had grown fond of Sweetrobin and enjoyed taking he and Bran under his tutelage. But now he was saying goodbye. It was decided that Jon would head South, to the Capitol, while Robb and Alys stayed in Winterfell for a few months, with Bran and Robert and Rickon. Orys has wanted Jon by his side and, despite his misgivings, Jon agreed. His Lord father had assured him that the Queen and he would hear his plea to gontk the Wall in short order and made Jon swear an oath, in front of the heart tree not to run away and take the Black.

On his final night in Winterfell, Jon felt a wave of melancholy take hold of him. How long would it be before he ever saw these walls again? He’d spend some time in the Capitol and then head to the Wall. That would most likely mean a ship to Eastwatch.

He found himself aimlessly wandering about the castle, Ghost on his heels. Through the godswood, past the stables, around the forge, Jon walked it all and his wolf followed. Eventually he came to rest on a set of stairs off the Great Hall and stared up at the sky.

“Funny meeting you here,” the Queen said as she broke his reverie. Jon offered her a warm smile and scooted over so she could sit next to him on the steps.

“The first time, well not the first, I knew you as a tiny babe, but the first time I met you was on these steps, do you remember?”

The memory was hazy to him, as he tried to recall, like grasping smoke. “Not really. There was a fight over a tart and then I forget. Sorry.”

The Queen smiled at him. “Don’t apologize. You were still very young. You sat on these stairs and I offered you a peach. It was a night like this, cool and crisp.”

“I’m surprised you remembered, your Grace,” he murmured.

Her face grew sad. “I remember all of those moments, sweetling. All of them. But besides that, how many times do I have to tell you to drop the ‘your Grace?’”

Jon shook his head and shrugged. “What should I call you? I know you don’t like your bastard nephew calling you ‘Aunt Lyanna’.”

“You think I don’t want you calling me your Aunt because your a bastard? No. No. That’s not why at all…”

She took a deep and shaky breath and grabbed his hands. Her palms were sweaty and body shivering. “I want you to call me what I really am to you...your…”

“SNOW! SNOW!” came a call from above, screeching and high. “KING! SNOW!” Jon craned his neck to see a raven circling in the sky above them. Behind it came the laughter of Bran and Robert, who seemed to have followed the raven into the courtyard. Next to him, the Queen composed herself and smiled tightly at the boys, but Jon could still see the turmoil inside her.

He was distracted when Bran ran up and enveloped him in a huge hug, one that shook his whole body. Behind him Robert did the same thing, causing Jon to let out a loud, “oof.”

“That bird was saying ‘Snow’, Jon! Did you hear?” Bran’s voice was high and excited.

“Course he did, stupid,” Robert said, his voice muffled as his face pressed into Jon’s doublet.

He laughed at the boys and deepened the hug. “It’s one of Maester Luwin’s. Goes to Oldtown. Also says ‘corn’ when it’s hungry.”

“C’mon, Jon, it’s your last night here and we want to fight with you!” Robert exclaimed.

“If that’s alright with you, Aunt Lyanna,” Bran asked. She smiled and tousled his auburn hair. “Of course it is, Bran. Go and have fun with him, I know how much you two love him.”

They smiled and started to pull him off the stairs. “Was there something you wanted to tell me, your Grace?” he asked remembering how she had seem poised to tell him something.

She smiled at him, but he could see how her eyes held a deep sadness in them. “It can wait,” she said as the boys dragged him away.

——————————

The trip down to Kings Landing was slow and laborious. Each day dragged on into the next, an endless string of riding and waiting, of trying to corral the wolves, of his siblings and cousins getting in trouble and yelled at by the Queen.

He had wanted to leave Winterfell for most of his life. But now, in a giant procession, surrounded by four thousand troops that King Robert had sent to escort his family home, Jon found himself missing the castle.

Nearly two long months after they had departed Winterfell, Kings Landing stood in front of him. Whatever he had been expecting, this was something else. Stranger and smellier.

He had gotten countless letters from his family while they were in the city, tales of the buildings they saw and people they met and trouble they found, but seeing the place, being in it, was an entirely different feeling.

The Red Keep loomed above him, tall and proud. It was both bigger and smaller than he had expected. A thrill went through him as he saw the city from afar, but riding through its shit smelling streets, Jon felt increasingly disappointed.

The royal procession was given a wide berth by the smallfolk on the streets as it snaked its way closer to the castle atop Aegon’s Hill. Used to royal procession, they drew little notice from the lowborn. Until they saw the wolves.

The animals were both a source of fear and wonder. Some ran in terror, clutching their children close. Others openly gaped at them, some even going so far as to shout “Wild Wolves of Winterfell have Wolves!”

A blazing sun was directly overhead as they finally made it into the safety of the castle’s walls. His siblings and cousins had gone off, running to their rooms, while a servant guided him to his, on a much lower level. It was a small room, the bed and window and table in it smaller than the room he had in Winterfell. Unlike his siblings, Jon’s room didn’t have a personal privy, so he had to share the one at the end of the hall with many others.

He sighed as he plopped his bag with personal items. Ghost was already laid out on the stone floor, trying in vain to cool himself from the hot and stale room.

“Not our first indignity, nor the last, boy,” he said to the wolf, who yawned in response.

————————————————

He fell into a routine with Orys and Theon, the Greyjoy lad even ruder to Jon now than he had been years ago, where they would spend most of their mornings in the yard, training with Ser Barristan or his Uncle Benjen. The sight of the tall and strapping Crown Prince, who usually trained shirtless, attracted many a maiden to watch them spar.

None of them even spared him a glance. It was there he first met Orys’ betrothed, the Lady Margaery. She was as beautiful and courteous as had been described, always greeting him as “Ser Jon,” and even blushing when he gave a perfunctory kiss to her hand.

She wasn’t the only noblewoman who was drawn to their bouts. Sansa was a frequent spectator, though she always cheered for Jon when he squared off against Orys, which caused his cousin to fight even harder. He had not spoken to either of them in the months since he had seen them stumbling from the godswood but was uncertain if their trysts continued.

Arya and Lyarra would watch and share pointers or usually, come to mock them. Lyarra even once threw a tomato at Orys as he wiped the sweat off his naked torso, telling her brother to “put a shirt on, you prat!”

Older women, like the Queen and even Lady Cersei would stop by and watch for a bit. The Lannister woman’s gaze always made Jon feel uncomfortable. Her green eyes blazed like wildfire and she whispered to her daughter, the Lady Myrcella, whose long black hair and bright blue eyes were so alike the Prince’s that people sometimes thought she and Orys were siblings. Myrcella blushed at Jon and covered her mouth as she smiled, drawing a withering look from her mother.

A few weeks out from the formal announcement of the betrothal of Prince Orys to Lady Margaery Tyrell, the Reacher lords started pouring into the Capitol. Each regarded him with a mix of envy and disdain. Almost all had heard of him and that King Robert has knighted him and none seemed pleased about it.

He took it out on their sons in the yard. Training every day for weeks on end with the best swordsmen in the realm had made him much better than before. Arya swore that in a few moons time, he’d be able to best even Ser Jaime. Jon laughed her off, but a small part of him knew she was right.

Jon found himself an equal to Loras Tyrell, the Lady Margaery’s brother, who was known around the realm for his talents at working a sword. Like all his family, Loras was nothing but courteous to Jon. He even seemed to share his disdain for the maidens who flocked to the yard every day.

“Is there not one that has drawn your fancy, Ser Jon?” he asked one day as they sat to the side, cooling down after a vigorous tilt.

“Simpering fools, the lot of them,” he answered. “Not that any of them would ever be interested in a bastard like me.”

“One or two are, good Ser. I can tell. Is that the only reason you never answer their flirtations?”

“That and I’m bound for the Wall, to take the Black. No use getting one of them with my child before that.”

Renly looked at him askance. “Lord Stark is sending you to the Wall?” He reached out and placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“My choice,” he answered as he took a chug of water from his skin. “It’s a place where a bastard can win renown. That appeals to me.”

Loras took a thumb and wiped some of the water that had dribbled off his chin. “I used to squire for Renly Baratheon. He’s in Storms End now, will be here for the wedding. He’d like you.”

Jon shifted awkwardly in his seat and nodded. Loras stood and bid him farewell with a wink and a nod, before walking over to the maidens and making them swoon. He felt jealous of the Tyrell man, who could have any woman he wanted.

“You ready to go again, Ser Jon?” Barristan the Bold asked with an easy smile. Jon nodded, grabbed his tourney sword at walked with his fellow knight to the pit.

——————————————-

It was in the yard, one day just before Robb and his lady wife were set to arrive for the feast, that he and Orys and Theon heard screams come from the noblewomen who watched their bouts. A mangy black cat came ambling out to the yard from the gallery, walking towards the trio as they stood with blades in their hands. Stormbreaker barely even lifted his head as he slept in the shadows. Jon saw Ghost get up from next to his brother and trot towards the cat.

“Easy, Jon,” Orys said warily. “That cat is a mean thing. Liable to scratch an eye out. I once saw it try and scratch my father’s balls.” Theon laughed at the joke. Jon smiled, too.

Ghost and the black cat stared at each other, seemingly taking stock of each other. The mangy cat hissed in anger and looked ready to bolt as it lifted its body high on all four legs.

Then it stopped and relaxed and allowed Ghost to sniff it, before the pair approached Jon. The cat rubbed its body against his legs, purring softly. He reached out and stroked the cat’s head, it’s one eye closed in what seemed to be bliss.

After a moment, it left, meowing towards Jon and Ghost before jumping on a balustrade and out of view. Orys looked at Theon and laughed.

“What in the seven hells was that? I’ve never seen that cat react like that to anyone before. Ever.”

His cousin had a look of surprised joy on his face. Jon laughed stupidly in response. Theon just scoffed.

“I know what happened. That black bastard is the true king of the castle,” Greyjoy said sneering. “It recognizes its bastard kin.”

He frowned at Greyjoy, that the enmity the boy had held for him years before was still true for the man he now was. The gallery was breaking up but at Theon’s taunt, it pressed back to the wooden balustrade that circled the pit.

“I also the real reason you won’t visit any whore. You think you’re better than those of us who go. But you’re not. Because you’re worried you might unknowingly fuck your mother.”

In a flash, he was on Greyjoy, a punch cracked straight across his jaw, sending the man to the floor, Jon landing on top of him. The blows continued and Theon barely had a chance to get his hands up to protect himself. After a few more blows, making the man under him bleed profusely from the nose and mouth, Jon was pulled off Greyjoy by Orys and his Uncle Benjen.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Queen asked as she frowned at Jon. He wasn’t even aware the Queen was watching him.

“Ask Theon,” he said sullenly, avoiding her gaze.

“Don’t think we can, lad. His jaw seems broken,” Benjen said, patting Theon in the back, sympathetically.

“He called Jon’s mother a whore,” Orys admitted, side eyeing Greyjoy.

Jon saw the color fade from the Queen’s face. “Serves you well then, Theon,” she spat. “A man fully grown resorting to taunt someone younger than you? And casting aspersions on the man who has taken you in as his noble ward? Take him to the maester.” She spat the part and Theon meekly bowed his head and allowed a guard to help him into the castle.

The tittering started as soon as the Queen was gone and after a few moments, he found himself alone in the pit, as the gallery of nobles stared at him.

\---------------------------------

It wasn’t the formal dinner, but a feast was held in Maegor’s Holdfast for all the family when Robb arrived. Small by King’s Landing standards, about one hundred and fifty people were in the largest room in the family’s wing.

Joffrey and Lord Baelish stood in a corner next to the dais, chatting idly. It seemed harmless enough, but with Ser Mandon hovering next to him, the little blonde shit could be up to anything. He took note of both Joffrey and Littlefinger and would mention it to either his father or the Queen in the morn. That the blonde Baratheon had come from Dragonstone was a surprise, the enmity between he and Orys was so bad that Jon couldn’t imagine them sharing the same castle in peace.

_This place is a pit of vipers, ready to strike whenever there’s a sign of weakness._

He watched it all from the lower tables, yet again, surrounded by little boys and squires. An anointed knight, on whose shoulders the king himself had placed the sword on, stuck with twelve year olds who shined armor and sharpened swords. He drowned his goblet of watered down wine. Up on the dais, his brother Robb was being fed a slice of a peach from his wife, Alys, who wiped some of the juice off his chin with a finger before putting it in her mouth. Robb laughed and kissed her sweetly, his palm pressed to her belly.

Jon had to look away, in jealousy, turning to Orys who was feeding the Lady Margaery a slice of an apple. She took it with a smile and leaned into his arms, laughing as he kissed the top of her head.

 _I will never have that,_ he thought, bitterly. There was no woman waiting for him to clean his chin, no one to hold him or love him. There never was and there never would be. His life was what it had always had been, cold and lonely, be it here or at the Wall. At least there he wouldn’t be reminded how less than the rest he was -- sullied and tainted by the circumstances of his birth.

Being stuck here, surrounded by his siblings and their lives, their loves, was almost too much to bear. He stood on unsteady legs and walked from the hall, the sounds lessening as he got further from the feast. It was only when he turned a corner that he realized Ghost was following him, as silent as ever.

Maegor’s Holdfast was a maze of long halls and stairs that Jon could never hope to remember. Guards stood at the end of most halls, but they allowed him to walk unmolested up one set of stairs and another before he was gone from the castle and onto a walkway that led into the larger Red Keep.

A few more turns and twists and the Great Hall opened in front of him, wide and deep. Braziers lit the hall in the darkness of night and cast a red-orange hue over the massive room. Above it all, massive and looming, was the Iron Throne. Twisted and dark, the chair was a grotesquely intimidating thing, that seemed to repel the light from the torches, not reflect or absorb them.

It took him some time to stride to the end of the hall where the throne sat, but he walked quietly, craning his neck from side to side to take in the splendor of the empty hall. King Robert had done his best to eliminate all signs of the dragonlords who had built the place, the walls were covered with his hunting tapestries, but Jon could _feel_ the Targaryens in this room.

Orys would sit on that throne someday, his sons and their sons after him. Mayhaps Robb’s son would be Hand, standing next to the Throne, tall and proud, advising the King and acting in his name. Powerful and true born, all of them. Noble men from noble houses. They belonged in this room. They belonged on that chair. He belonged nowhere, to no one.

As he glanced around the room, the sheer power and scale of it, took his breath away. For a moment, small and fleeting, he saw himself on the Throne, crowned and adorned in jewels, a beautiful queen next to him. But that was not his fate.

He was not born for such things.

A nudge on his arse from behind him pushed him closer to the throne. Jon was unsure where it came from, before he remembered that Ghost was in the room with him.

“Stop it, boy,” he said as he turned towards the wolf. In response, Ghost nudged him closer to the throne, then closer still. He gave the wolf a playful shove as laughter spilled from his lips.

“Quite a sight, isn't it?”

Jon turned to find his Lord Father standing near the doorway he had walked through, a small smile on his face as he approached.

“It’s bigger and uglier than I’d imagined.”

His father stopped when he was next to Jon and stared at the Throne, a hint of mischief on his face.

“That’s what I said last time I saw the King.”

He turned his head quickly to find Ned Stark laughing at his own joke. Jon gladly joined him.

The two then turned and sat on the steps leading to the Throne. Ghost approached and gave a lick to his father’s outstretched hand and then plopped his head on Ned Stark’s lap, eager to be petted.

“Greedy wolf,” he said as he stroked his head, and looked in those red eyes “but probably my favorite. Don’t tell the others.”

His wolf responded by licking his father across the face, drawing a loud moan in response.

“Keep that up and I’ll become a Scarlet Shadow man.”

Jon laughed at that, “Lyarra also calls her wolf ‘Jonquil Darke’.”

“And the wolf answers to both.” His father said as he continued to scratch Ghost behind his ears, causing the wolf’ tongue to loll.

“Orys’ wolf is Stormbreaker,” Jon noted.

“Those Baratheon’s are very dramatic,” his father said wryly. Ghost licked his face again, causing another groan.

With that, his wolf turned and laid down at the foot of the Throne, looking as if he were meant to lie there. Jon laughed, but his father’s face grew pensive for reasons he suspected he knew.

“Is it hard? Being in this room? Knowing what the _Targaryens_ did to Uncle Brandon and Lord Grandfather?” Jon spat the name of that cursed house. Anger flashed in his father’s eyes before vanishing as quickly as it came before the familiar sadness settled in.

“Aye. Sometimes. But Aerys wasn’t all Targaryens, Jon. They did some good things, lad. So as much as I hate him, I can’t hate _them_. This was where Jaehaerys I ended the practice of First Night, where Aegon V sat as he kept thousands of Northerners alive during a harsh winter.”

“Where Cregan Stark sat at the end of the Dance, in the Hour of the Wolf,” he added for effect. Despite the fact that he was a man grown, Jon still felt a boy around his father, eager to impress. “And where Orys will sit someday.”

“And he will need good men around him. Like Robb. And Bran. And little Robert. And you.”

He sighed and looked to the floor. The pink stone under his feet lightly reflected the flickering flames, enough so he could see his shadow as it stretched out across the floor.

“I can’t stay here, father. I can’t. I can’t watch them get all the things that I can never have.”

His father sighed and Jon looked to him. On his face was a tight smile, but his grey eyes showed the conflict within.

“I had hoped, maybe the Kingsguard? Like Benjen?”

It was something he had thought. The fact that he was _Ser_ Jon Snow would be enough to allow Orys to appoint him with little complaints from Southrons. He had already been grievously injured protecting Orys, why not make the title official?

“I love Robb. I love Orys. But I would be their lesser. And I can’t. I can’t, father. I try not to be proud, to accept my place. But I...I won’t. Uncle Benjen is a Stark. I’m not. Even with my knighthood, all I’ll ever be to these people is a Snow.”

His father nodded sadly at that, his grey eyes pointed down at the floor, as he fiddled with the hem of his sleeve.

“No matter what happens, I want you to know how proud I am of you. Not just that I got to see my son knighted at the age of twelve by the king in the hall of my ancestors, no. The man you've become, the kind and patient man who has somehow corralled two eleven year old boys and somehow made them respectable…”

Jon laughed at that. “Wasn’t easy,” he muttered.

“Aye, I suspect it wasn’t. Just a taste of the medicine you and Robb and Orys gave me, I suppose. But I love you, son. Because you are my son. In all the ways that matter. I just…”

His father choked on the words, becoming emotional. Shocked, Jon reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder, as Ned Stark had done for him countless times in his life.

“...I want you to know I love you. I hope you do.”

———————————

“I want to join the Watch,” he told the pair as they sat in the godswood. His father and aunt often spent an hour or so every night among the trees, sitting as various family and friends filtered through.

He had waited there, hidden under a tree for them and for their visitors to stop. The sun had long set and only moonlight and the occasional brazier lit the godswood.

When they were finally alone, he took a breath and approached, noting the open smiles the pair gave him and told them his plan.

“No,” the response from the Queen came, so swiftly it caught him off guard.

“Lya…” his father said, hesitatingly.

“I said, no,” she responded, the Iron in her voice plain to he and his father. “He will not take the Black.”

“I don’t need your permission, your Grace, I’m a man grown.” He was angry but still sounded petulant as he confronted his aunt.

“You can go. But if your mind is set on this, then you won’t make it out of this castle unless I say so. I will have you tossed in a cell until this madness passes, Jon.”

“It’s not madness,” he spat back. “I want to join. It’s the only chance for me to gain some honor.”

“Honor?” His father questioned, but was silenced by a raised hand from the Queen.

“You’re one of the youngest men ever knighted,” she interrupted. “I was there. One of the proudest moments of my life.”

“But I’m still a Snow. A bastard. And that’s all I’ll ever be! Stuck in the shadow of my noble brother and princely cousin. At least at the Wall I won’t be reminded of my shortcomings.” He was pacing now, frustration taking hold of him.

“And I said, no. The Night’s Watch’s vows are for life. I will not allow you to throw your life away amongst rapists and murderers. Not now. Not ever. Are we clear?”

“No!” He was angry now, being scolded like he was some small child and not a man grown. “I can’t stay here. I can’t. I can’t watch them with the women they love, I can’t watch them married and then with babes if their own while I get none of that. I can’t. It’s bad enough I will never have it, but to be reminded of it every day would be a curse. One I couldn’t bear.”

“This is my fault,” she said softly. “I should have told you years ago. But how? It was easier to keep things as they were. For us, at least. And safer. But not for you. And for that I will always be sorry.”

“Lya, are you sure this is the right time?” His father’s words were rushed and whispered. He seemed frightened.

“Right time for what?” he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

“To tell you who your mother is,” she said plainly.

The words stilled him. Everything slowed to a crawl, the sounds around him, the movement in his vision, his breathing. The only thing he was aware of was the Queen in front of him and the desperately sad look on her face. She took a deep breath.

“Your mother is…me. I’m your mother,” the words spilled from her and Jon stepped back, stunned.

“What?” he asked as his mind went blank, his body numb.

“I’m...your mother. I gave birth to you.” Half a heartbeat passed and Jon thought he was a bastard born of the incest between Eddard Stark and his sister before she continued.

“Your father is Rhaegar Targaryen.”

A bastard born of rape, then. He felt weak, wobbly and almost fell to the floor. “Rape…” he choked out as he placed his hands on his knees and tried to breathe.

“No, my love. No.” she said, firmly. Jon couldn’t look at her, couldn’t lift his head, his gaze stuck uselessly on the godswood floor.

“I married Rhaegar, I married your father in secret. I was meant to be his second wife. We married in front of a godswood, in sight of the old gods.” Her voice hitched as she finished, “I loved him and he loved me. But not as much as I love you. I’ve loved you since I birthed you. And named you. Aegon Targaryen.”

The Queen — his _mother_ — was looking at him with such love in her eyes that for a moment his pain and anguish was gone. He had a mother. And she loved him.

It was only a moment, though, and the agony returned in force. Aegon? Bloody Aegon? Wasn’t that the name of the baby that was slaughtered in Elia Martell’s hands? _My half-brother_.

“I didn’t want to marry Robert,” she said as she glanced around the empty godswood, frightened at what she was admitting. “But I had to. To protect you. Robert will have you killed if he finds out the truth.”

“That’s not possible. That can’t be true. Why…?” His words got caught in his throat and the rest came out as a choked and guttural moan.

“It’s true,” she said as she reached into her skirt and pulled out a ring, made of gold and with a sigil on it. A field of black, quartered, with four rubied three headed dragons on it, putting it on his finger.

“That was your father’s ring,” she said softly. “Rhaegar’s ring. He wanted you to have it. It...He left it in my care for you before he rode off to the Trident.”

“He raped you, though. Everyone knows. You’ve said it yourself.” His kind was racing like a young steed freed from its stall. Every mention of Rhaegar, every mention of his relationship with his Aunt Lya...mother.

“I lied. About him. And our relationship. To protect you. To seal the lie. To make sure Robert would never question me or you.”

“It’s all my fault, then. All of it.” He collapsed to the floor, legs useless. “All this pain and suffering. All because of me.”

She took his face in her hands and pulled his gaze to hers, helping him to his feet.

“I need you to understand, none of this is your fault. None of it.”

Her words were hollow, meaningless to him.

“I know it might be hard, but I’ve dreamed, ever since I first held you, that we could one day be mother and son. That I could openly embrace you and you’d call me ‘mother’ and I’d call you ‘son’.” She took a step towards him and hugged him, deeply. His arms stayed to his side and he tensed as her hug grew deeper.

“I can be you mother now,” she said, almost offhandedly, as she pulled away from him.

He scoffed, which cause her to scowl. “I don’t need you _now_. I needed you _then_ ,” he said and cringed at how petulant he sounded. “A little boy with no mother to comfort him.”

He thought of _him_ then, the little boy he was; scared and lonely. A small child in a cold castle, and the nights he’d cry himself to sleep with no one there for him. Nights when he’d call out for a mother, who instead was here being feted on, hand and foot. When her other children called for her, she answered. All he ever got was silence.

Anger and hatred roared in him, so intense he shuddered uncontrollably.

How could he ever forgive them? Forgive her? He owed it to that little boy they lied to for all those years, the little boy they pushed to the side and hid. The child they announced as the source of their shame and mistakes.

_They named me a bastard. I am what they made me._

From the depths of his belly, he screamed. Loud and long, a feral roar that woke something dark in him. The Queen and Lord Eddard looked at him with concern. It went on longer than even he had anticipated, until finally he had no choice but to catch his breath. In the distance, he heard the wolves howling, a mournful answer to his painful cry.

“Enough, Jon, enough!”

Eddard Stark grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked, pulling Jon away from his sister and back towards him.

“That’s not my name!” he screamed as he grabbed Lord Stark by the throat and lifted him clear off the ground. “That’s the name you made me take! You made me this!”

After a moment, the man started to gag and choke and he tossed him on the ground, landing with a thud. Ned Stark rolled over, holding his throat, gasping.

“I hate you,” he said, softly, to the man who was his father. Ned Stark’s face fell as he kept his hands close to his neck, breathing heavily.

“Listen to me,” the Queen said as she pulled his arm and spun him to her.

“No,” he seethed and pushed her away. He wasn’t sure if it was the force of his shove or that she was unprepared for it, but the Queen fell to the floor and for the briefest of seconds he felt guilt. It was easier to shove aside than she was.

“NO!” he screamed.

She reached up for him from the floor and the sight made him even angrier.

“He was right. Theon.” He paused and saw the dawning realization of what he was about to say spread across her face. She looked as hurt as he had ever seen her. _Good. That means I **can** hurt her._ The anger in him wanted to see her in agony, to know that he could inflict such pain in her meant, somehow, that her love for him was true. That it wasn’t a lie.

“My mother was a whore.”

Her face fell, a moan escaped her lips and she seemed to collapse upon herself, into the mass of skirts that had spread out around her on the godswood floor.

He had to leave this place, the trees, the wood, the walls, all of it was closing in on him. So he ran.

The entrance to the godswood was in front of him when Orys walked into the doorframe, almost colliding with Jon. The Prince held a big smile as he hugged him.

“What are you running for?”

When Orys looked over Jon’s shoulder, he found Lord Stark crawling towards Queen Lyanna, who was sobbing on the floor, reaching towards them.

“What happened?” Orys asked.

“I did it,” he hissed.

Orys looked at him in confusion. The pain and anger in him was still roaring.

“I did it to them. They deserved it and more.”

“Bastard!” he screamed and swung at Jon’s head, wildly. His fist was easy to block, Jon swatted it away, and even easier to counter, which he did by punching Orys in his gut. The Prince buckled, hands on his knees before standing suddenly and kicking Jon in his balls, sending a surge of pain coursing through his body.

All pretense was lost after that and the pair of them were brawling, flailing really, as they rolled around the godswood. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon spotted blood trickling down Orys’ nose. He had made his brother bleed.

The thought stilled him. Orys was his _brother_.

His brother took advantage of Jon’s hesitation and punched him square in the face. Jon fell to the ground like a sack of rocks, his nose exploding in blood and pain. He didn’t feel it though, the numbness that had taken hold of him since the truth was told to him hadn’t abated. Instead, as Orys knelt over him, he laughed in his brother’s face, which stilled the Prince as he grabbed Jon by the doublet, pulling him towards his face. Orys’ face was full of fury as Jon spoke.

“Go on, Orys,” he said through the blood pouring from his nose, “Go on. Find the hammer your father wielded on the Trident and bring it here. I’ll wait.”

His brother’s fury was replaced with confusion. A small part of Jon screamed caution at his next steps, yelled that his family had spent seventeen years to protect him and keep his parentage secret. That caution was silenced by his anger and rage. His immense pain was in control and he would hurt as many of those involved as he could. Orys had a mother’s love, Orys was as much a true born Prince as he was, his father just happened to murder Jon’s. Unlike him, Jon didn’t get a life in the Red Keep, adulation of a crowd, a gorgeous woman to love, to bear his children. He got pain, and he would share it, gladly.

“I’ll wait here, _brother,_ while you go get the hammer and then when you return you can drive it through my chest like your father did mine.”

No strike he could muster could have sent Orys reeling like those words did. The Prince fell back onto his heels and scrambled off of him and onto the floor, landing on his arse.

“What?” Orys asked, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Go on, brother. Do it. And when you’re done maybe our mother will cry over my body.”

“That’s means. That’s not possible. You’re a bastard...everyone knows.”

“No one knows,” he spat, “and according to her, I’m true-born. She married Rhaegar Targaryen.”

He held up his hand and gave his brother a look at the ring still on his finger, the dragon ring.

“You’re the dragon.” The pause after he muttered that seemed to stretch into eternity. “My...my father will know what to make of this,” Orys said, breaking the silence, as he stood and took a wobbly step. “Stay...stay here,” he muttered before he turned.

Then he was gone from the hall, headed back from where he came, his steps unsteady and hesitant.

Jon only laughed in response. Where else could he go? Telling Orys meant telling Robert Baratheon. The man who had knighted him, had placed a sword on his shoulder would be less gentle with his blade, this time. An image of his head on the battlements of the Red Keep came to him and the laughter only increased. He was going to die and die laughing at that.

Before he could think about it further, a wet tongue dragged across his cheek. “Ghost?” he asked, with a sob, as the wolf placed his white head on Jon’s chest. A few tears escaped his eyes and dropped onto the crown of the wolf’s head, before Ghost stirred and started scratching at him.

The image from before was replaced. This time, Robert Baratheon was sat on the Iron Throne, a white wolf’s pelt wrapped around him. He shuddered uncontrollably again and rose to his feet.

_I am not dying here. Neither is Ghost._

The wolf seemed to sense his mood shift and took off into the castle, forcing him to follow, leaving the hall and headed towards a staircase. He took the steps, two at a time, down and down until he turned a corner and ran into a man, dressed casually with a white cloak, sending him down to the ground.

“Jon?”

His Uncle Benjen, and he was still that despite the lie he had lived, helped him to his feet. An easy smile graced his uncle’s features as he gave Jon a once over, before frowning when he saw what state his nephew was in.

“What’s happened?” he asked, the rising panic in his voice impossible to ignore.

Jon shook his head sadly and tried to keep the tears at bay. “That’s not my name,” he said quietly. For the first time he wondered if Benjen knew the truth. When his uncle’s face fell and he pulled Jon tight to him in an embrace, he knew the answer.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know they were gonna tell you.”

He felt that little boy again, pressed against his uncle, wanting to hide from the world in shame. But whatever he was — and he wasn’t sure who he was, or what he was, or even what his name was — he was no small boy.

“I think I hurt them, your brother and sister,” he said, breaking Benjen’s hug. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, I did. But I was so angry. I’m still so angry and sad and…I don’t know who I am.”

The rest was swallowed by his tears. Benjen’s face held nothing but sympathy in his grey eyes. “It doesn’t matter, son. You are who you are, who you’ve always been.”

There was truth in his uncle’s words, he knew. But it was one that he couldn’t grasp yet. It was nothing but sand in his hand, slipping through his fingers.

From behind him a commotion came, the sound of armored steps and men yelling. The worry that had lined Benjen’s face returned. “What happened up there?”

“I didn’t hurt them that bad. And then I told Orys. The truth. He saw the state his mother was in when I left her and attacked me.”

His uncle hissed and started moving immediately. “Here,” he said as he undid his belt and pressed the scabbard and sword in his hands. “You’re unarmed. Take this,” he started as he reached under his doublet and pulled a small leather pouch hanging from a string around his neck. “And this,” his boots came off and he handed him two smaller leather pouches.

“Go to the docks. Find a man named Ser Davos Seaworth. He's the captain of a ship. Tell him I sent you. Tell him you’re my blood. And that you need to leave right now. Give him some gold.”

“Uncle…” he started and hesitated. Benjen just hugged him one more time and kissed his brow. “You’re a good lad. None of this is your fault. But you need to leave.” The words spilled from his uncle with a hurried panic as the clamoring grew closer. “If Robert knows, we are all in trouble. But all of us accepted our fates. We knew the risk. You didn’t. And I’m so sorry for that. Go. I love you. But if you die then this is all for naught.”

Ghost came between them and started to nudge Jon with his furry head. Benjen smiled at that, tight and quick, but a true smile. “Let your wolf lead you. Go, son.”

His uncle took the steps up, two at a time, before he turned to him. “Go.” Benjen Stark held his arms out in a plea as tears filled his grey eyes, before resuming his climb.

Jon turned and followed Ghost, down and down, further from the light, his family, his past, and into the darkness.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The docks were coming to life in the pre-dawn hours, men hauled crates and livestock up and down gangways, spooled lines and checked sails. Life went on, even when Jon’s had stopped.

He found the ship, named _Princess Lyarra_ for his cousin, sister, not too far from the shoreline, anchored at the end of a long pier. Ghost, and the way everyone gaped at him, trudged behind Jon, an ever present guardian.

“Wolf trailin’ behind ya, must be a Stark,” said a man as he approached from the ship with an easy smile. He extended a gloved hand to Jon, who shook it in return. “Name’s Seaworth.”

Ser Davos was sat on a crate, just next to the gangplank, casually carving what seemed to be a doe from a small block of wood.

“I’m….” his response got stuck in his throat. _Who am I?_ “Snow,” he said, as he felt Ghost pressed against his legs. The old man considered him for a moment, “You’re Ben’s nephew, Ser Jon, no?” He nodded in agreement. No matter what, he was Benjen Stark’s nephew.

The small sack of gold weighed against his chest as he pulled it out and pressed it into Ser Davos’ hand.

“What’s this, then?” he asked as a hand rifled in the sack. When the knight realized it was filled with gold, he was met with a confused look.

“Uncle Benjen said to come here and find you. I want to...I need to...leave this place.”

Ser Davos laughed in his face, and tossed the gold back to him.

“I appreciate that, son, but I’ve still got a man or two yet to show up. We leave when they arrive. Nothing like the prospect of a fortnight at sea to make a man find some comfort where he could find it, eh?”

Ser Davos turned his back on him and started whittling his deer, knife moving deftly through the wood. “Making this for the little lady Myrcella. Made a stag for her brother, Tommen and she grew so sad, her blue eyes fillin with tears. Lady Cersei would prefer lions, of course, but those kids are Stannis’ and they’re stags, too.”

He felt adrift and lost as he stood there like a fool, listening to this kind man drone on and on. When he opened his mouth to talk, nothing came out but stuttering and mumbling nonsense, “That’s not...Benjen said...to leave…”

His words were drowned out by the sudden clanging of bells as they echoed through the city. In the distance, from the Red Keep, screaming calls could be heard as they echoed through the city. Everyone around them stilled and turned to the castle.

Then in a heartbeat, they were moving quickly, women carrying their children, men finding their families, carts and animals being shepherded along, all moving somewhere, in a hurried panic. Home, he figured, but he had no home. Nowhere to hide.

Ser Davos looked around and started walking towards the end of the pier. “Mathos!” He screamed into the din, panic in his voice evident even to Jon. “Mathos!”

A minute later, a young man came running through the crowd of people towards them.

“What about the oarsman, Mychal?” Ser Davos asked the young man.

“Never found him, father,” he said through gasps. “Goldcloaks are on the move. Lookin’ for a man. With a...white wolf.” Mathos stopped as he saw Ghost. “Father…”

“Get on board. Now. Mychal stays behind.”

Mathos hesitated for a moment before nodding and running on board. Davos turned to him, his eyes worried.

“Time to go, Ser Jon.”

His feet couldn’t move, though. So much had happened so quickly, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“Nothing but shit ever came from the bells, son. Trust me on that. We have to leave. Now.”

Ser Davos spun and started barking orders, bellowing to be heard over the clamoring of the masses and clanging of bells coming from the city, before turning back to him.

“It’s now or never, good ser. I don’t know what you’ve gotten into, but it can’t end well. Ben is a friend of mine and you’re his kin. I don’t wanna see you hurt. Come with me to Pentos and we can see how bad the trouble is from there. Lay low for a while, wolf included.”

The gloved hand reached to him, offering a chance to escape. Jon looked back to the city, a city his Targaryen ancestors built, a castle they built, a throne they built. One half of his family was squatting in what the other half had created, built from nothing.

That was when he knew what his choice was, when he turned and grabbed the gloved hand and allowed it to guide him onto the boat. Ghost followed behind him.

In a moment, the ship had pushed free of the pier, sails unfolded and wind at their backs. As they pulled away, a dozen Goldcloaks made their way to the now empty dock, yelling at the ship as it sailed away from them. “Nothin’ they can do about it now, son,” Ser Davos said as his hand found Jon’s shoulder.

A profound sense of emptiness had settled in him. The thought of never seeing his family, of harm coming to them, of the truth they had denied him, his anger and pain, all of it, mixed into some numb liquid that enveloped him from head to toe.

He turned his back on it, on _them_ , and stepped towards the prow. Tears fell from his eyes, stinging as they dropped down his cheeks, the salt lingering on his lips. The wind found his cloak and he wrapped it tightly around his body, hair whipping in the breeze. His gaze remained on the horizon, as the sun rose over Blackwater Bay, the sounds of the city lessening until there was nothing but the low moan of the churning sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot to talk about and let's do it in the comments. This was the chapter that I never thought I'd get to, but I did. Wild stuff, man. As such, I treated myself to a commissioned fan art.
> 
> https://strickland527.tumblr.com/post/187849979746/heres-the-whole-thing-from-dragonanddirewolf
> 
> ISNT IT LOVELY?!? 
> 
> The gorgeous artwork is thanks to tumblr user dragonanddirewolf. What a joy dealing with her, shes so good, guys so go out and BUY MORE ART!! FROM DRAGONANDDIREWOLF, TOO!!
> 
> Up next is DANY III where the MOD bickers with her nephew, gets a potential solution from her mother, greets a person from Jon's past and makes a choice.


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